


Turn, Drop, Fall

by Tessa Crowley (tessacrowley)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (sorry), Alpha Harry Potter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Brief scenes of heterosexuality, Infidelity?, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 06:46:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11915376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessacrowley/pseuds/Tessa%20Crowley
Summary: In his father's world of staunch traditions and strict gender dynamics, presenting as an omega is the worst thing that could happen to Draco, although accidentally bonding to Harry Potter and being forced into a marriage with Antonin Dolohov both come in close second.





	1. Turn

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of a story that was deleted, so if it seems familiar, that's why.

If it had just been the mission, Draco could have handled it.

That’s what he told himself, anyway. It was certainly a comforting thought, even if it was an enormous lie and, deep down, Draco knew it. The mission on its own was dangerous and insane and completely impossible and his parents’ lives were hanging in its outcome – but _this_.

This was _worse_.

Or at least it _felt_ worse. Draco felt like he was physically falling apart, on top of everything, on top of the mounting tension from the Dark Lord’s impossible mission and the looming fate of his parents and the shreds and tatters of his nerves, he was _falling apart_.

No, not falling apart – _collapsing_. Draco was so _hollow_ that all the bones and muscles and sinew were caving in from lack of support. There was this dreadful, aching void inside him and Draco was absolutely sure that if it was not filled he was going to _die_.

He knew what this was, in the sense that there was some portion of his conscious brain that recognized the symptoms, but it was almost completely drowned out by the raw, animal portion of his hindbrain that was screaming _fuck want need fill please please please please please_.

His clothes were too hot, despite the fact that they were charmed to be light and breathable; they were too scratchy, despite the high quality of the fabric. He could feel wet heat running down the backs of his thighs, bleeding through and ruining his trousers, and his heart was slamming in the side of his throat. Everything – his robes, his skin, his ribs – was just _too tight_.

He’d meant to go to the hospital wing, or that’s what he’d decided when he first realized what it was, but halfway there it had all become too much, far, far too much, and he pushed his way into the bathroom halfway between the Slytherin commons and the hospital wing because he was burning up and he needed cold water on his face more than he needed his next breath. He stumbled in and over to the nearest sink, turned on the tap, wetted his hands, and spread the cool water on his face.

It was wonderful, and the heat of his skin almost made the water sizzle, but it wasn’t _enough_ , it wasn’t _enough_ , he _needed_ , he _needed_ …

“Malfoy?”

The voice came from behind him and Draco spun around.

It was Harry Potter – but more importantly, it was his _scent_ , and _oh, Merlin, yes._

The scent was incredible: heady and thick and aromatic _exactly what he needed_. The conscious part of his brain was screaming something about how this was completely mad and (more relevantly) _Harry fucking Potter_ , but none of that mattered because he was here and he was going to make everything all right.

“Potter,” he rasped.

The expression on Potter’s face was one of abject astonishment, tempered with a bit of terror and want. “What’s that smell?” he asked, and his voice was tight, throaty.

“It’s me,” Draco answered, and he wanted to add _come here, breathe deeply, fix this, fix me, please, you’re the only one who can,_ but he wasn’t quite coherent enough.

Potter started walking forward. The muscles of his legs seemed stiff and awkward, but he was closing the gap between them, he was going to make it all better, Draco was absolutely sure of it.

“It’s incredible,” Potter said, with the sort of tone that made Draco think he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but that was fine, Potter didn’t have to say anything, he just had to fix it and make Draco fine again. “You smell _incredible_.”

He was so close, and the scent was thick in the air, gorgeous and wonderful and making Draco’s cock strain against the front of his trousers.

“Malfoy, why do you smell so good?”

Potter was within arm’s reach now and Draco grabbed him sharply by both shoulders and yanked him close. Potter’s entire body jerked as they pressed together and ( _Merlin, yes_ ) it felt so good, it made Draco’s skin come alive with electricity.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, and he was speaking into the side of his neck. “Christ, Malfoy. What’s going on?”

“Shut up,” Draco answered, and he kissed him hungrily.

Potter shut up.

The kiss was all teeth, rough, possessive, savage. Draco ripped at Potter’s robes, at his tie, at the buttons of his shirt, he needed more skin, and so did Potter by the way he was doing the same to Draco. The whole process of undressing was taking entirely too long, Draco thought, and he wanted to grab his wand and cast a disrobing charm but at some point it had fallen out of his sleeve and rolled away somewhere.

Potter made a grunting sound and gave Draco’s trousers a sharp yank and Draco whined and jerked his hips, shaking the fabric free as fast as he could because he needed Potter’s mouth or his hands or his cock or _literally anything at all_ and what was going on, why was Potter stopping?

He had stopped, Draco confirmed, and that was completely unacceptable. He looked at Potter, whose eyes were locked firmly on Draco’s thighs, at the wetness drizzling down his skin and catching the light.

“ _Potter,_ ” Draco said sharply.

“You’re wet,” Harry commented. His voice was hungry and wanting, but more than anything, confused.

“I’m _wet,_ ” Draco agreed, and he snaked his hands through that gorgeous rat’s nest that Potter called hair, and he stared at the lovely lines of Potter’s chest, and he bucked his hips wantonly. “I’m so wet, Potter, _please_ , I _need_ you.”

Any remaining confusion on Potter’s face evaporated at Draco’s words, replaced entirely by wanting, and he crouched down in front of Draco.

“Open,” Potter said roughly, and Draco leaned back on the sink and spread his thighs wide open in eager compliance. “This is impossible,” he continued, and he grabbed one of Draco’s thighs, jerked it up, and buried his face in Draco’s slick, wet hole—

—and ( _oh, Merlin, oh, fucking Merlin yes, yes_ ) Draco did not so much moan as scream and throw his head back. Draco’s cock was straining against the skin of his stomach and despite the awkward, painful position against the sink, he was writhing and squirming and begging Harry for more in high, desperate wails.

Potter’s tongue was hot and fast and thick, and it felt like he was trying to lick up every drop of wetness, like he was trying to memorize every inch of him, and it was the best thing Draco had ever felt in his life, and he wanted more of it.

“You taste as good as you smell,” Potter moaned, speaking directly into his skin, and Draco almost sobbed from the sensation of Potter’s tongue leaving him. “Malfoy, I…”

Draco really hoped that he wasn’t about to ask another stupid question, because he did not have time for a biology lesson or Potter’s stupid bloody moral compass, he just needed that gorgeous tongue of his back inside him before he killed something or possibly himself from sheer, desperate _want_ —

“I need to fuck you,” he finished, voice low, rumbling into Draco’s pelvis. “Can I?”

That last vestige of Draco’s conscious mind was shrieking at him, almost loud enough to drown out his hindbrain and the roar of his instinct. This whole thing wasn’t a coincidence, at least not entirely – if Potter fucked him, if he came inside him—

—but _Merlin_ , Draco’s hindbrain moaned, that was _exactly what he wanted_. He wanted Potter’s cock, his come, he wanted it _so badly_ , every instinct he had was telling him so, screaming that there was nothing else in the world he wanted other than exactly that.

His hindbrain was louder.

“ _Yes,_ ” Draco said through his teeth, like there was no other answer, “Merlin, Potter, _yes_ , you can fuck me—!”

Potter growled again and it was such a territorial sound that Draco shuddered. He stood up, grabbed Draco by both arms and pushed him down so he was bent forward over the sink, thighs spread open.

And Draco could hear fabric rustling, and he could ( _oh, fucking Merlin and Circe_ ) feel Potter’s hot, thick, pulsing cock, sliding along his thigh, smearing Draco’s wetness. Potter’s hands were splayed across his back, his breath ghosting across Draco’s neck—

“What are you _waiting_ for?” Draco whined, and if there was any part of him that was embarrassed by the raw desperation in his voice, it was drowned out by everything else.

“You really _want_ it,” Potter purred into Draco’s ear, and the words went straight to Draco’s cock. “Look at you, wanton and desperate, you’re _aching_ for it—”

“ _Please,_ ” Draco sobbed, grabbing the sink tightly with both hands.

“—you’re _gorgeous_ like this, and you’re all _mine_ —”

And Potter shifted his hips and sank in and ( _oh fuck oh Merlin oh Merlin it’s so good so fucking good_ ) pliant and wet as Draco was, Potter’s cock pushed in with one long, even stroke, and it _hurt_ because it was just a bit too long, too thick, too hot, just bad enough to hurt in the best ways, to fill that aching void in Draco completely.

“You’re _mine,_ ” Potter hissed into Draco’s ear, his hand fisting in Draco’s hair, “say it.”

“I’m yours,” Draco whimpered, because he _was_ , he was all Potter’s, and Potter started to move, and his too-long, too-thick, too-hot cock moved with him and it was exquisite torture. “I’m all yours.”

“No one else gets this but _me,_ ” Potter said into his ear.

“No one else,” Draco managed, though his voice was strained, he was only Potter’s, no one else would ever have him.

He was moving faster now and ( _fuck oh fuck Merlin it’s so good I can’t take it_ ) Draco could feel heat boiling in his stomach, the torrid roll of nearing climax as Potter staked his claim.

“All mine, Malfoy,” Potter said, and his voice was also getting taut – how long had they been fucking now, a minute, a decade? – and his hands were gripping Draco so tightly he was sure there would be bruises, marks that showed Draco belong to Potter and no one else ( _no one else only Potter’s oh Merlin I’m going to come I can’t take it_ ).

In French it was called _la petite mort_ , the little death, and when that boil of near-climax became too much to handle, Draco at long last understood why. The world went white and Draco’s heart stopped; he came with such intensity that for a split second there was nothing, absolutely nothing, except the blinding, deafening pleasure.

It wasn’t for several long seconds, or possibly a hundred years, that Draco finally regained his senses. Potter had stilled as well, buried in him to the hilt, and deep in Draco’s pelvis, there was liquid heat pooling, growing with each pulse. Potter was coming inside him and he could feel every drop of it.

Draco shuddered and moaned, wriggling his hips against Potter’s with what little strength he had left.

But soon the world was fading around him – did he drop or was he pushed? Did he fall asleep or fall unconscious? Potter was pulling out of him and Draco would have felt disappointed if he weren’t so tired…

 

* * *

 

The only way this was going to make any sense to Harry was if he broke it down into manageable parts.

First, Harry lost his virginity. Not a big problem in and of itself, he decided. He certainly didn’t have any ridiculous ideas of losing it on a bed of roses with his one true love that the incident had dashed.

Second, he’d had sex with a bloke. Also not a big problem, not really. It was surprising, he supposed, but not _bad_. Harry was hardly a homophobe, and even if this was his first indication of being bisexual, it was definitely not the worst thing to happen to him.

Third, it had been good. _Really_ good. So good that he couldn’t get it out of his head, couldn’t stop thinking about how impossibly, mind-bendingly, earth-shatteringly _excellent_ it had been. Harry had never come so hard in his life. Just thinking about it set Harry’s heart beating a bit faster, his blood running a bit hotter. Harry had trouble imagining that, on its own, as a bad thing.

Fourth, it had been with Draco Malfoy, and that was where it got complicated.

Because, really? _Draco Malfoy?_ After years of hating him and months of stalking him, trying to figure out what he was up to, _this_ was how it culminated?

Fifth, and most pressingly, the whole thing had been _weird_ , and not just because it had been sex with Malfoy. That incredible scent Harry had first detected in the hallway – the ambrosial, smoky-woody-floral smell that had bypassed his brain and went straight to his cock – what in God’s name had _that_ been? Why had Harry felt so out-of-control, and yet at the same time more in-control than he’d ever felt in his life? Why had he said the things he said? Why had he been overcome with the desire not just to fuck Malfoy, but to _claim_ him, to thoroughly and completely _own_ him?

And more to the point, did this have anything to do with Voldemort and whatever task he’d concocted for Draco? Was this part of some elaborate plot? It didn’t seem like the Dark Lord’s _modus operandi_ , but then there were wild cards among the Death Eaters who might do something like this, sickening as the idea was.

The big problem was that he needed answers, didn’t know where to find them, and therefore had only one option: he had to talk to Ron and Hermione.

“Mate, I think the one silencing charm will be enough,” Ron said. A few hours had passed, filled mostly with Harry pacing and thinking and fretting, and it was past dark now. The library was mostly empty, but Harry wasn’t taking any chances, and cast a third silencing charm just to be sure.

“Is everything all right?” Hermione asked, quicker to pick up on Harry’s motives.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “Something happened.”

He sat down across from him. Hermione seemed very concerned, but Ron seemed more confused than anything.

“I saw Malfoy,” he began haltingly, and this whole thing was _beyond_ embarrassing, and he really didn’t want to talk about it even though he knew he had to. “In the hall, I mean. I followed him into a bathroom because he was walking strange, sort of staggering, and I noticed…”

Ron leaned forward. When Harry’s sentence fell off, he prompted with, “Yeah?”

“There was this smell,” Harry said, swallowing his embarrassment. “This – God, this _amazing_ smell. It was coming from him.”

That hadn’t been the direction Ron had been expecting the story to take, clearly. “Smell?”

“It’s hard to explain,” he said, feeling his face flush despite his best efforts. “It was really strong. He was shaking – he looked awful, like he was sick or something, but everything just happened really quickly and when he saw me I just – I couldn’t keep away from him, I felt like I _had_ to… and then we sort of… we just…”

He really couldn’t bring himself to say it, not out loud, but Harry was pretty sure they got the general idea. Their faces spoke volumes.

“I didn’t – this sounds daft, but I didn’t _mean_ to,” Harry insisted. “I felt like I couldn’t even control it, like _neither_ of us could! It was some – some weird magic! Please believe me!”

Hermione, of course, seemed baffled. But to Harry’s surprise, Ron had a look of clarity.

“Oh,” Ron said. “Mate, that’s not a – I mean, it’s not a problem.”

“It isn’t?” Harry asked.

“It isn’t?” Hermione repeated.

Ron looked between both of them. No doubt Ron was also noticing how strange this was, that Hermione was in the dark and he was the one with the answers.

“No, it’s fine,” Ron assured him. “I mean, it’s – yeah, it’s weird, it’s Malfoy – but it’s not your _fault_. You said you smelled him?”

Harry nodded.

“Was he all sort of—” Ron coughed, flushing scarlet before saying, “—uh, wet?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Yes! I mean – yes. Yes, he was. How’d you—?”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Ron said again, more certain. “Malfoy must have been in estrus.”

“Estrus?” Harry asked. “What, like a cat?”

To his surprise, Ron laughed, though it was sort of nervous and awkward. “No. Well, I mean, yes, a bit. I guess you wouldn’t know, neither of you, you were both raised with Muggles.”

“What are you talking about, though?” Harry asked. “How can Malfoy—?”

“He must be an omega,” Ron said. “It’s – it’s sort of hard to explain. It’s _really_ rare. A long time ago, there was this outbreak of dragon pox, and witches and wizards magically evolved this – this sort of _thing_ to deal with it—”

“ _Oh!_ ” Hermione said suddenly, straightening in her chair. “I read about that!”

“Thank Merlin,” Ron sighed, “because I really shouldn’t be the one to explain this.”

“It _is_ very rare,” Hermione said, turning to Harry, “but it’s not unheard of. Ron’s right, about a thousand years ago, wizardkind was close to dying out, and they started magically evolving secondary sexual characteristics.”

“Secondary—” Harry stammered, “—what?”

“It used to be very common, but now that the population is back up it’s all but disappeared,” she continued. “These days they’ll only show up in people from really old, pureblood lines.”

“Like the Malfoys,” Ron supplied.

“Basically, people started having two sets of sexual characteristics instead of just one – they were either alpha male, alpha female, omega male, or omega female,” Hermione said, and Harry wondered how on earth she remembered all this, and he tried not to think of how this was more than a little bit awkward to hear from his best friend. “Omega males and alpha females gained sexual characteristics of both men and women – they could both sire and carry children. Alpha males and omega females had their primary sex exaggerated, making them hyper fertile.”

Harry opened his mouth. He would have liked to ask a question but nothing managed to work its way out of his throat.

“It was a really necessary evolutionary advantage at the time,” Hermione assured him. “With so few wizards and witches, the extra capacity to sire and carry children was integral for the magical gene to survive.”

“What – what does this have to do—” Harry began.

“I’m getting to that,” Hermione said. “As part of their secondary sexual characteristics, omega men and women evolved to go into estrus once a month. It was part of the whole stimulating-population-growth thing.”

“So you’re saying…”

“Malfoy must be an omega,” Ron repeated, and he let out a bark-like laugh. “Which is sort of funny, if you think about it…”

“It’s not _that_ funny,” Harry said severely.

“But it can’t just be Malfoy,” Hermione said. “Not just anyone can smell an omega in estrus, or – ah – _react_ like you did, Harry.”

Harry wasn’t sure that ‘react’ was quite the right term for it, but that wasn’t his biggest concern. “What do you mean?”

“Only an alpha reacts like that to an omega in estrus,” Hermione said. “Harry, you must be an alpha.”

“It makes sense,” Ron said. “I mean, your dad came from a really long pureblood line, didn’t he? Only an alpha can sire an alpha, and only an omega can birth an omega – so he must have been an alpha, too.”

It was rather more than Harry cared to know about his father, and he rubbed his forehead.

“He probably didn’t know,” Ron continued. “Lots of alphas never know they’re alphas unless they go out of their way to find out, or come across an omega. But omegas have that whole once-a-month estrus thing, though there are potions now that can stop it.”

“Why wasn’t Malfoy using one?” Harry asked. “If there are potions.”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe it was his first estrus. He’s about the right age.”

Somehow, the idea that Malfoy had come into it just as blind and unprepared as Harry had was comforting. Not _that_ comforting, though.

“I’m just glad it wasn’t part of whatever Malfoy’s up to,” Harry said miserably, rubbing circles into his temples.

There fell a moment of silence. Harry looked up at them both.

“It wasn’t, right?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Hermione said.

“ _But_ ,” Ron interjected, leaning forward with a grin that was, Harry thought, altogether too wide, “you _could_ use this whole thing to your advantage.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure he liked the new direction this conversation was taking. “I could?”

“Now that Malfoy’s presented as an omega, he’ll react to your scent really strongly,” Ron said. “It’s a biological thing. I bet you could use it to get answers out of him.”

“Ron!” Hermione said, aghast.

“What?” Ron countered.

“That seems sort of manipulative,” Harry said.

“Bollocks to that, the prat’s probably taken the Dark Mark and he’s up to something bad; we all know it!” Ron said. “Who cares if it’s manipulative? It’s not like you’re going to be really _hurting_ him – and besides, all’s fair in love and war.”

Love and war. Harry wondered if that was an intentional joke, decided to treat it as if it hadn’t been any sort of joke, and looked away, out into the quiet, empty library.

His mind was telling him not to do this, that it really was very manipulative in the worst sort of way, that he was above that sort of thing.

But a small part of him – a quiet part, far in the back of his mind – told him to do it, for no other reason than he wanted that scent again.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Malfoy?”

He blinked open his eyes and then immediately regretted it when the too-bright lights of the hospital wing glared down at him. He squinted and turned his head away.

Every single part of him ached, and as his mind rose up through the various layers of consciousness, the pain only got sharper. He groaned, despite himself.

“Mr. Malfoy, I know you must be feeling terrible, but you have to wake up.”

He recognized the voice as Madame Pomfrey’s. He pried his eyes open and looked up at her as his eyes struggled to adjust to the light.

“You went into your first estrus,” she told him, in that clinical, businesslike way of hers, and though he wouldn’t have admitted it he found it very reassuring, especially when he was in this much pain. “I need to know if you had intercourse.”

Oh, _fuck_.

Panic hit him like an oncoming train and he sat bolt upright in bed – then immediately fell back again because pain was radiating in every possible direction through his body. Draco almost screamed and felt for a moment he thought he might vomit.

“You shouldn’t move,” Madame Pomfrey said sharply. “I gave you a suppressant to end your estrus prematurely, but when these potions are taken late, they have side-effects.”

The term was so casual that it almost felt vindictive. Draco was in so much pain that he couldn’t even sit upright, and it was just a side-effect?

“Please answer the question, Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “Did you have intercourse?”

He screwed his eyes shut. He was nauseous again, but not from pain.

“Yes,” he croaked, and he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Male or female?”

“Male.”

He didn’t need to see her to know that she had that look of hers – the one that hovered somewhere between disappointment, pity, and exasperation.

“I’ve given you a routine screening,” she said after a pause. “You haven’t contracted anything, but if your partner was male, you really should take an emergency contraceptive.”

At once, Draco’s arms wrapped around his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was a gesture borne of nausea or protectiveness, and frankly, he was in no condition to analyze it.

His instincts were in the back of his head telling him not to take a contraceptive, that why would he ever want to, but with the suppressants they were very easy to quash. Maybe his instincts wanted him to be pregnant, but everything else in him most certainly did not.

“Yes,” Draco said. His voice, at least, was firmer, surer. “Please.”

Madame Pomfrey click-click-clicked away, to her desk on the far side of the room, where he could hear her rummaging through a tall cupboard.

Draco’s first thought – past the overwhelming, nauseous terror of it all, of course – was the was that his father might somehow discover that he’d presented as omega.

Immediately following that thought was a painful jolt of emotion. Father wasn’t even around to _find out_ , not since he’d been dragged off to Azkaban last year.

Hogwarts, though – there was very little he could do about word spreading through Hogwarts. If he acted quickly, he might be able to do some damage control, though there was a good chance he was already too late.

He did not have _time_ to feel this sore.

“Drink this. It’s the emergency contraceptive.”

Draco lifted his head. Madame Pomfrey was back at his bedside again, holding out a small crystal phial, unlabeled, half-full of a bright blue draught that smelled like mint and vinegar. Draco once again quashed down his instincts telling him not to drink it, held his nose, and downed it in one fast swallow. It tasted just like it smelled.

“You’ll be feeling wretched for a few more days,” Madame Pomfrey said. “The bulk of your symptoms are suppressed, but the estrus will still be going on, and until it ends you’ll be sore.”

“The suppressants—” Draco began, but Madame Pomfrey cut him off.

“When you start taking them regularly, it will stop hurting,” she assured him. “Likely, you won’t even notice them, though some omegas have reported mild flu-like symptoms during suppressed estruses.”

Draco released a breath. He could handle mild flu-like symptoms.

“But the suppressants might be hard to come by these days,” she continued. “There aren’t very many omegas anymore. I had to have Professor Snape brew you your first dose.”

“He brews them for my mother,” Draco said vaguely, and Madame Pomfrey nodded. “Do you think I could talk to him?”

“You really shouldn’t be moving—”

“In the interest of long-term self-sufficiency,” Draco lied. He could learn to brew the suppressants later; right now he needed to know how many people knew he’d presented as omega.

She sighed. “I’ll see if he can come here,” she told him. “Wait here.”

She click-click-clicked out of the room again and with a great concentration of will, Draco rolled slowly onto his side so he could curl around himself. Normally he found the hospital wing oppressively hot – granted, Draco was a creature of winter, and he found most places not outside in the snow oppressively hot – but for some reason he felt very, very cold. He wondered if it was another side-effect.

And in the deathly quiet of the empty room, aching and weak and freezing, Draco’s mind went back.

_You really_ want _it._

Draco shuddered, curled tighter around himself. Damn his body and damn his treacherous mind.

_Look at you, wanton and desperate, you’re_ aching _for it—_

And damn Potter, while he was at it.

The worst part was that there wasn’t really anyone to _blame_ for this. Draco felt like his entire world had been flipped on its head and there wasn’t someone he could set on fire as retribution. Potter was an alpha, Draco was an omega – an omega in estrus, no less – and there was no other way it could have ended.

But still, damn Potter. It may not be his fault, but damn him, just in general.

_—you’re_ gorgeous _like this, and you’re all_ mine _—_

He shuddered again, and moaned entirely against his will. Despite the suppressants and despite the pain, Draco’s blood rushed toward his pelvis. He could almost feel it, feel Potter’s hands burning into the skin of his back, feel his cock pushing into him—

“If it’s practical advice you want, I’m afraid I won’t be of much assistance.”

Draco’s eyes flew open, but despite the surprise he was very glad for the distraction.

Professor Snape was coming towards him, black robe billowing around his feet, pointed features put in sharp relief from the overhead lights of the hospital wing.

“I don’t want practical advice,” he said, though he didn’t bother trying to sit up (Slytherins didn’t make the same mistake twice). “I need to know how many people know.”

Snape stopped at his bedside and looked down at him. He was frowning.

“Well, you were discovered by Violet Buckley.”

“Oh, _fuck_.”

“Language, Draco.”

Violet Buckley, prefect of Ravenclaw and biggest gossip in the school. If Violet Buckley had found him, everyone in the castle knew by now. “I can’t believe this is happening. As if this year could have gotten any worse.”

“As in all things, the key is to maintain poise.”

“To hell with poise. What does poise matter? Word will eventually get back to Father.”

Draco didn’t need to look to know that Snape’s frown had deepened. “He is in Azkaban, Draco.”

“And what if—” (Draco stopped, spared a look at Madame Pomfrey, and when he confirmed that she was out of earshot, continued) “—if the plan _works?_ If it works, if it all goes like His Lordship wants, my father will be released.”

“Draco…”

“He’ll be released. It happened to Mother and it would happen to me—”

“You are the sole heir to your house, Draco.”

“—they aren’t too old, Professor; they could have another child! You _know_ what happens to pureblood omegas. I’ll be _sold off_ to whichever alpha offers the most.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Snape said, but the doubtful tone of his voice betrayed him.

“I’m sure he _would_ , because it’s tradition, and Merlin forbid we break tradition.”

The weight of Draco’s own words was starting to settle into his bones, chilling him from the inside out. He curled more tightly around himself – he could already picture it: a life as a trophy for some awful old pureblood alpha, nothing but a toy for fucking and a womb for carrying heirs. Not for the first time since waking up, Draco was overwhelmed with nausea, this time as a result of utter terror.

“I can’t,” Draco whispered, hot tears stinging at his eyes. “I can’t be _sold_. I can’t live like that, Professor, I can’t—!”

Snape produced his wand from his sleeve and gave it a flick. A chair against the far wall skittered over, and Snape sat down.

“Draco,” he said, with a surprising gentleness, “look at me.”

He did – or at least he tried; it was hard to see much through the tears blurring his vision – and Snape looked back at him with soft eyes.

“I will do everything in my power to make sure that does not happen,” he promised. “Even if the worst should come to pass, you will not be abandoned. I will not allow that so long as I am living. You are my godson.”

The comfort of his words was hollow. Draco knew that if his father decided to sell him off to an alpha, there was nothing Snape or Mother or anyone could do to stop it. His father was an alpha, a pureblood, and a staunch traditionalist: in his eyes, an omega’s only function was to be bred.

Fate was closing in on him and it was all too much. Despite Snape’s promise, Draco felt, in the truest and blackest sense of the word, abandoned.

 

* * *

 

Harry knew by day three, beyond any lingering doubt, that the incident in the bathroom had been Malfoy’s first estrus. He also knew that Malfoy presenting as an omega was a very big deal, though he couldn’t quite figure out why, beyond the fact that it just _was_. He’d also learned that Malfoy’s absence from classes was due to the fact that he was riding out the last of his estrus in the hospital wing.

Harry knew all of this because no one in the entire castle would shut up about it.

Apparently he was the only omega in Hogwarts (or at the very least, the only omega anyone knew about), which only made it more interesting. Everyone in school was swapping stories and theories about what omegas were like and how incredible it was that Malfoy of all people was one.

But no one, thank God, was drawing anything back to Harry.

By the time Malfoy was finally discharged from the hospital wing, four days had passed, and when he came into the Great Hall for breakfast, every conversation seemed to suddenly hitch. His appearance certainly hadn’t silenced the room, but it had definitely drawn attention.

From his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, Harry watched. Malfoy certainly didn’t _look_ any different – just as pale and pointy and neat as ever – but for the way everyone was staring one would have thought he’d caught fire.

Harry had to admit that he admired Draco’s poise and grace, given the circumstance. He kept his chin up and his gait even as he strode right down the aisle and took a seat next to Blaise Zabini. He filled his plate with food and his goblet with juice and that was that.

“You’re staring,” Hermione said.

“Everyone’s staring,” Harry answered.

“What she means is you’re making cow eyes,” Ron said.

“What?” He turned sharply. “No, I’m not.”

“You are a little bit,” said Hermione.

“I’m not making cow eyes at Malfoy.”

“No judgments,” Ron said. “I mean, all the books and things say that shagging between an alpha and omega is almost a religious experience. I reckon that doesn’t stop being true even if the omega is a Death Eater prat. You’re allowed to make cow eyes.”

“I’m not making cow eyes!” The religious experience thing wasn’t far off, though, Harry thought.

“Just remember, no matter how good it was, he stepped on your face.”

Harry glared at Ron, which, thankfully, got him to shut up. Then Hermione brought up the History of Magic essay due next week and they dropped the subject.

But after breakfast, Harry lagged behind and let Ron and Hermione go on without him. He followed Malfoy off toward one of the towers, and even though it wasn’t the first time that Harry had followed him (not even the first time this year), he couldn’t help but feel like it was different somehow.

When Harry followed him around a sharp corner leading up to the owlery, he stumbled back when he saw Malfoy was right in front of him, glaring at him and blocking his path.

“Potter,” he said, “there is absolutely nothing you have to say to me.”

Harry regained his bearings quickly.

“Really? Because I can think of a couple things worth saying.”

“Let me rephrase: there is absolutely nothing you have to say to me that I would give a damn about.”

Harry frowned. “God, you’re such a git,” he said.

“Oh, and you’ve been such a bloody gentleman! You know what they say about casting the first stone, Potter – you’ve been stalking me all year!”

Harry leaned forward. He’d meant to snarl something about Katie Bell and the cursed necklace, but he forgot it all when Malfoy’s scent flooded his senses.

It wasn’t as strong as it had been four days ago, and it didn’t have the same overpowering effect on Harry, but it was unmistakable, and still the most gorgeous thing he’d ever smelled in his life.

Malfoy, he noticed, had tensed up significantly.

“Potter,” he said, and Harry saw right through the flimsy veneer of resoluteness and into the core of wanting.

“You really are a git, Malfoy,” Harry said. “I like you so much better when you’re begging me to fuck you.”

Malfoy shuddered and Harry took a profoundly deep satisfaction in seeing it.

“I was in estrus,” Malfoy said. His voice was starting to tremble. “I was out of my senses. I would have begged the same of anyone with a cock—”

Harry fisted a hand in Malfoy’s hair and pulled back sharply. Malfoy yelped, and the long lines of his throat stretched out under Harry’s mouth. The temptation to lick and bite was strong, but he resisted.

“You’re not in estrus now,” Harry muttered.

“ _Potter,_ ” Malfoy said again, and this time the wanting was obvious.

“What are you up to, Malfoy?” he asked, keeping his hand tight in Malfoy’s hair, keeping his lips inches away from his throat. “Has Voldemort got you on a mission?”

Somehow, Malfoy tensed up even further.

“Skulking around Borgin & Burke’s, secret meetings with Snape, cursing Katie Bell at Hogsmeade, using the Room of Requirement for God-knows-what – what’s the endgame? What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Stop,” Malfoy hissed, eyes screwed shut, head turned away.

“ _Tell me._ ”

“Stop it. Potter, _stop it_. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking,” Harry said. His grip in Malfoy’s hair tightened and he pulled again. The sound Malfoy made in response – a gorgeous little whimper – went straight to Harry’s cock. “And you’re going to answer me.”

“I’m – I’m not going to do whatever you want just because you’re an alpha, Potter—!”

“No,” Harry answered, “you’re going to do whatever I want because I’ll give you what _you_ want if you do.”

Another whine escaped Malfoy’s throat, and Harry closed the remaining distance between them. Malfoy’s body was hot, trembling with want, and Harry could feel the outline of his cock straining against his robes.

“Because I do know what you want, Malfoy. I know it like I know how to breathe. I can taste it on your skin, smell it on you.”

Harry pushed his palm into the soft fabric of Malfoy’s robes, groping heavily against the outline of his cock.

“Fucking _Merlin,_ ” Malfoy hissed, and his hips bucked forward against Harry’s hand.

“I know what you want and I know just how you want.” Harry’s voice was low, strained under the weight of his own arousal. “I want it, too.”

Harry could tell that Malfoy was swiftly approaching inarticulacy. His hips were rolling against Harry’s hand, completely responsive and utterly desperate. Harry really did like Malfoy better when he was begging.

“Tell me everything and I’ll give you _exactly_ want you want.”

“P-Potter, we’re in the middle of the hall—”

“I could hold you against the wall and fuck you with my fingers. How does that sound?”

Malfoy moaned throatily and his cock twitched against Harry’s palm.

“Get you so wet that you ruin all your lovely tailored robes,” Harry continued. His face was buried in Malfoy’s hair so he could breathe in his scent as it grew stronger. “Keep going until you’re shaking and coming around my had.”

“Potter…”

“Or maybe since you’re not in estrus anymore, I could just fuck you proper. Would you like that, Malfoy? Right here in the middle of the castle where anyone could walk by and see me fucking you, see you _loving_ every second?”

Malfoy was starting to shake all over. When Harry had found him in estrus, he’d been unabashedly desperate, but this was new – he was hanging on to his last shreds of restraint, even when his body had obviously turned against him utterly. It only spurred Harry on, because all of a sudden there was absolutely nothing in the world he wanted more than to see Malfoy submit.

“Answer me, Malfoy. Would you like that?”

He gave his hair another sharp tug and Malfoy keened.

“Yes!” he wheezed. “Yes, Merlin, I w-want it – need it—!”

“You don’t care if anyone walks by,” Harry said. “You just need me to make you come, don’t you?”

“Y-yes! Please, I need it!”

“ _God_ , you’re gorgeous like this,” Harry said, because it was true; Malfoy was absolutely delectable when he was compliant like this. “Say it again.”

“I _need_ it.”

“ _Again._ ”

“I _need_ it, Potter – I need your cock, I need you to fuck me, I _need_ it, more than I need air, please, Potter, _fuck me_ —!”

Malfoy’s hands were scrabbling at Harry’s robes now, trying to tug off his tie, but with what was left of his self-control Harry grabbed both Malfoy’s wrists to stop him.

“I will,” Harry said, “if you tell me what you’re doing in the Room of Requirement.”

Malfoy’s frantic movements abruptly stilled. His eyes met Harry’s, and for several long seconds, the only sound that came was their breathing.

He had lovely eyes, some distant part of Harry’s brain noticed – slate gray with flecks of silver and a dark ring around the outside. His pupils were blown wide and Harry could detect, under the wanting and desperation, a look of terror. Harry wondered what he was so scared of.

A new instinct twisted inside him, one that was telling him to protect. Consciously, Harry knew it was counterintuitive – protect _Malfoy_? – but the longer he stared, the more apparent Malfoy’s fear became, the stronger the instinct grew. Of _course_ he had to protect Malfoy. He clearly needed protection from something, and Harry had to find out what.

“I have to go.”

“Malfoy—”

He shoved Harry away and fled the hall like a bat out of hell, leaving Harry achingly hard, desperately confused, and freshly determined. His instincts raged within him: _protect_ , they said, and Harry would. He had to.

 

* * *

 

Hogsmeade in May was far too sunny for Draco’s tastes. Despite the fact that there was more than a little French blood in him, Draco was quite thoroughly an Englishman, and as such he preferred clouds and rain to sun and heat. He only ever survived the warmer months by reminding himself that they were heralds of winter.

He heard the crack of Apparation and knew that it must have been her. He’d skipped out of potions to meet her specifically because he knew Hogsmeade would be quiet and mostly empty, and they could have privacy.

The bell on the café door jingled as she entered. La Virage was a quiet little shop, miles above the other fare of the village in terms of quality but half as big as it should be. Still, Draco liked it – expensive though it was, they made some of the best pastries Draco had ever tasted – and more to the point, Mother liked it, too.

He couldn’t help but smile when he saw her. “Mother.”

She turned towards his voice, and the blonde of her hair shone in the sunlight flooding the shop. “Draco, darling.”

He rose as she approached and kissed her cheek, then embraced her tightly. He couldn’t help but think how much easier this whole thing would have been if she’d been here earlier, but he banished the thought quickly. There was no good that came from dwelling on could-have-beens.

“I received your owl,” she said as she sat down across from him at the corner table. The shop was almost claustrophobic for how small it was, but at least it was empty. “I’m so sorry you had to go through this alone.”

Draco sighed. En lieu of answering, he slid over the puff pastry he’d bought her, and she smiled reassuringly.

“I trust Severus brewed you your suppressant?”

“He did, yes. I had to suffer through three days of agony, but I suppose the alternative would have been worse.”

He watched as she took a delicate bite of her pastry.

“Mother, is he going to sell me?”

She suddenly became very still. It seemed like it took a lot of effort to swallow her mouthful of pastry.

“I… I’m not sure, darling.”

Draco’s throat became very tight. He knew full well that her delicate non-answer meant _yes, if he gets the chance_. “I… I couldn’t bear that.”

“Oh – oh, Draco, please, it’s not – it wouldn’t be that bad. I’m sure he would choose someone respectable.”

“How can you say that? It happened to _you_.”

For a moment his mother’s face was drawn in lines of perfect sadness. Her eyes were unfocused, cast to one side, as though she was recalling a tragic memory. They had never really spoken of her marriage, due in large part to the fact that they both knew it was a delicate matter.

“There never could have been anyone for me but your father,” she said after a moment. “It’s true that our marriage wasn’t borne of love, but the strongest marriages are always built. And in any case, it brought me you, so I could never say I regret it.”

She smiled, but Draco knew there was more than a little sadness to it.

“Besides,” she continued, “there’s still the bond. It may not be love, but it’s very much _like_ love. If you’re ever intimate with an alpha, you’ll feel it for yourself.”

Abruptly, panic rang in Draco’s head. He _had_ been intimate with an alpha. “Bond?” he said. “What sort of bond?”

“The alpha-omega bond,” she answered, and there was a strange, vague smile on her face as she spoke. “It’s steady and deep and strong. It keeps you coming back to each other, whatever happens. It awakens an alpha’s desire to protect and an omega’s desire to nurture.”

“So it goes both ways?”

“Oh, yes, dear. People often make the mistake of assuming that an alpha always has control in the relationship, but nothing could be further from the truth. An alpha will never know they’re an alpha if they never meet an omega; _we_ define _them_ , not the other way around. And as strong as an alpha may be, we will always have a much deeper power over them.”

Draco was doing his best not to panic. “And this… Mother, this bonding – is it _permanent?_ ”

“Well, these days, it might as well be,” she said. “Back when alphas and omegas were commonplace, alphas could challenge one another over their bond to an omega. But now that alphas and omegas both are rarer, those barbaric days are behind us. Draco, are you all right?”

His hands, he realized, were shaking around the cup of tea he’d completely forgotten to drink. An effectively permanent instinctual attachment to _Harry Potter?_

“Draco, you’re so pale…”

She reached out and touched his cheek, and when Draco looked up at her, she saw the fear and dread in his eyes and sucked in a breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mother,” he croaked, “when I presented – when I went into estrus, I…”

A look of terrible clarity fell onto his mother’s features.

“Who?” she asked.

He tried to answer only to realize that his breath had fled him. It took a concentrated effort of will just to drag in a ragged scrap of air and rasp: “Harry Potter.”

Her hand on Draco’s cheek flew over her mouth.

“Potter is an alpha?”

Draco nodded. His chest was tight with fear. “Does – does prolonged separation hurt? I mean, does it…”

He didn’t quite know how to finish the sentence. Luckily, his mother did.

“I… yes,” she said carefully. “Since your father was taken away, I’ve… it’s been hard, of course, but—”

“Oh, Merlin, Mother, _that’s_ why you’ve been sobbing every night!”

“Draco—!”

“There must be some kind of potion – something to reverse it! I can’t be – be _bonded_ to Potter, not with everything! Not with the plans and attack and the Dark Lord—!”

“Draco!”

Her tone had changed. There was the light of eureka in her eyes, and all of Draco’s words and panic fell off.

“That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“That’s our way _out_ ,” she said. She reached into the sleeve of her robe and cast a silencing charm, despite the fact that the café was still empty. Draco knew that could only mean one thing. “It’s our way out of the Dark Lord’s clutches.”

Draco swallowed. Their waning loyalty to the Dark Lord was something they both understood but didn’t speak about, the perpetual elephant in the room. It had started in Draco’s fifth year when the Dark Lord had moved into the Manor and culminated when he’d given Draco his impossible mission – find a way to get an army of Death Eaters into Hogwarts and kill Albus Dumbledore – and even though it went unacknowledged, Draco knew beyond any doubt that his mother felt just as he did: the Dark Lord was insane, and they had made a grievous error.

“I don’t…”

“Think, Draco. If you really are bonded to him, he’ll feel a natural impetus to protect you. He has connections within the Order of the Phoenix – he could _get us out_. Both of us!”

Draco swallowed. “Earlier, he… since the year started, he’s known that I’ve been up to something, and earlier today, he cornered me and asked me what my mission was.”

“That’s even better!” she said, gripping his hands again. “Make it an exchange of information. He won’t be able to help himself, darling. If he’s bonded to you, he’ll feel like he has to do everything he can to make sure that you’re safe.”

It seemed like a very good idea. More than anything, he wanted out of his situation, and if there was anyone in the world who could do that for him, it was Harry Potter.

“But what about after?”

“After?”

“After it’s over. Even assuming the best-case scenario. After everything is said and done, I’ll still be bonded to him. What then?”

She frowned. It took a moment for her to put her answer together.

“I don’t know, darling,” she finally said. “I suppose one must always remain optimistic. Perhaps something could be worked out… if nothing else, an amicable arrangement. Or perhaps we could find a spell or potion to reverse the bonding.”

Draco despised the idea of hanging his future on so precarious an idea. But really, what other option was there? Especially under the circumstances. He was making progress on the cupboard that would be able to transport the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, but what about Dumbledore? Draco hated the old bat, but he knew, deep in his bones he _knew_ that he couldn’t kill him. He couldn’t kill _anyone_.

He thought back to Katie Bell and the necklace, how sickened he felt, and she hadn’t even _died_. It had told him everything he’d needed to know, that he was not and never could be a murderer, not really.

But if he didn’t, what would become of him? Of his parents? The Dark Lord would kill them.

As with most things, his mother was right. He had to get out, they all did, and Harry Potter was the only way.

“Do you really think it will work?”

She smiled. “You’ll find a way to convince him. You are an omega, my dear, and your power must never be underestimated.”

Despite himself and the situation, Draco smirked. That _was_ a comforting thought.

 

* * *

 

For the rest of the day and the first half of the next, Harry looked for Malfoy and avoided explaining why. He wasn’t at breakfast, though that wasn’t too surprising, given that the gossip surrounding him was thicker than ever. He also wasn’t anywhere in or around the dungeons, or at least not that Harry saw.

By midday, Harry was starting to get frustrated trying to find Malfoy, and that was when Malfoy found _him_ , quite abruptly and in the middle of the hallway.

Harry jumped at first, because he’d just sort of appeared when Harry had rounded the corner.

“Blimey, Malfoy, give us some warning.”

“We need to talk.”

“We do?”

Malfoy grabbed him by one arm and pulled him away. Thankfully, there was no one around to notice.

When they stopped, they were in an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor, and by the layer of dust that had settled, it hadn’t been used in years. It was lit only by occasional shafts of sunlight slicing through the gaps in the curtains. Malfoy shut and locked the door with a quick spell.

“I want to make a deal.”

Harry turned sharply. In the quasi-darkness, Malfoy’s features were indistinct, and Harry had to move closer to study his face and know he wasn’t kidding.

“A deal?”

“You want to know what I’ve been doing all year,” Malfoy said, “and I want something in return. So let’s make a deal.”

No, Malfoy was definitely not kidding. In fact, Harry noticed, his hands were shaking faintly, and he looked frantic – like there was a lot riding on this conversation, like he was desperate.

“What are the terms?” Harry asked.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he answered. “Everything I know. Everything about – about his plans, about what his next move is. And in return, I want protection for myself and my mother.”

“I’ll do it,” Harry said without thinking.

Malfoy seemed startled. “You will? That’s it? No cajoling?”

Harry opened his mouth, realized he didn’t know what to say, and snapped it shut again. Now that it had been pointed out to him, agreeing that quickly probably did seem a bit strange.

But it didn’t _feel_ strange. Harry wanted answers, yes, he wanted to know what the Dark Lord’s plans were, but he also wanted to protect Malfoy in whatever way he could. In a very basal, instinctual way, he wanted that _more_ than he wanted Voldemort’s plans.

“I won’t lie, Potter, I was expecting more of a fight.”

“It’s a good deal,” Harry said after a moment. “I can find a way to protect you.”

“Until he’s dead,” Malfoy said, and Harry nodded.

“Of course until he’s dead,” he answered. “I wouldn’t let him hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you, not _ever_.”

The words seemed to surprise both of them. There fell a lapse of silence between them.

“I can put you and your mother both in an unplottable house somewhere until the whole thing blows over,” Harry continued after a moment. “I’m sure someone in the Order will know of one.”

Malfoy stepped forward slowly. “And it will be under the Fidelius Charm.”

“Of course,” Harry said at once.

“And you’ll be the Secret-Keeper.”

“Of course I will, no one else should be trusted with it.”

When had Malfoy gotten so close? He was near enough that Harry could smell him again, that incredible smoky-woody-floral scent that made everything else in the world seem completely unimportant.

“He’s planning an attack,” Malfoy whispered.

“When?”

“June. I’ve been… he ordered me to find a way to smuggle Death Eaters into Hogwarts. That’s what I’ve been doing in the Room of Requirement.”

Harry knew he should be listening, but it was hard. Malfoy was so close and smelled so good that it was hard to concentrate on anything.

“There’s a Vanishing Cabinet that I’ve been altering,” he said, though his voice was starting to get breathy. “I’m nearly done.”

Without quite knowing why, Harry reached up and brushed his thumb across one of the lines of Malfoy’s throat. The gesture drew a long shudder out of him.

“He ordered me to kill Dumbledore,” Malfoy said, his voice getting tight. “He said he’d kill me if I didn’t. Kill my parents.”

Harry felt rage inexplicably bubbling up inside him at the mere idea of anyone threatening Malfoy with death. His other hand came up and joined the first on Malfoy’s neck and he yanked him forward so they were body-to-body.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” Harry whispered, and Malfoy released a delicious, shuddering moan. “ _No one is going to hurt you._ Not Voldemort, not anyone. Do you understand?”

“Potter…”

“I’ll protect you,” he said. “I’ll do _anything to protect you_ —”

Malfoy abruptly silenced him with a ferocious kiss and Harry was perfectly content to forget the rest of his sentence. He hadn’t even realized how badly he wanted Malfoy until he was pinning him down on one of the dusty, disused desks and kissing down his throat.

“Merlin – Potter—!” Malfoy gasped, and Harry tugged sharply on his tie, ripped open his shirt, shoved aside his robes.

“No one will _ever_ hurt you, Malfoy,” he said into the flushed, heated skin of Malfoy’s chest. “You’re _mine_ and no one will hurt you.”

“I’m yours,” Malfoy groaned as Harry’s mouth trailed down his stomach, and the words went right to Harry’s cock. “Only yours. Oh, Merlin, Potter, I need you—”

“Only mine,” Harry agreed, giving Malfoy’s trousers a firm pull. He hadn’t really gotten a good look at him the first time around in the fog of Malfoy’s estrus, but _God_ , he really was gorgeous. Expanses of soft, pale skin pulled tight over long limbs – a lovely, slender cock below a dusting of silvery-blonde curls, and his thighs were already slick with fluid. “Jesus, you’re incredible. Look at you…”

“I’d thank you to do more than look,” Malfoy said, and his hands were suddenly on Harry’s robes. “I need you so badly that I feel like I’m going to break apart at the seams.”

Harry released a hiss of breath and helped Malfoy take off his robes.

“I want to taste you,” Malfoy said against Harry’s mouth, and it was the best idea Harry had ever heard in his life. Malfoy suddenly pushed his hands over Harry’s chest and sank down, off the table and onto his knees.

And— “ _Fuck!_ ” —was that Malfoy’s tongue or was it pure satin given life? Harry braced both hands on the edge of the desk just to keep himself upright. His eyes fell shut and he lost himself in the feeling of Malfoy’s tongue, Malfoy’s lips, the heat of Malfoy’s breath, the painfully slow movements up and down, on and off. “Malfoy… oh, God…”

He spared a look down at him, which was a mistake, because Malfoy looked so incredible bobbing on his cock that the sight of it nearly did Harry in right there. Gray eyes stared back up at him as Malfoy opened his mouth and took the whole head of Harry’s cock, which also very nearly finished him off. He took several deep breaths, knotted his hands in Malfoy’s hair, and let his eyes fall shut again.

Malfoy’s mouth was incredible, like liquid fire that spread across his skin and consumed every part of him. It was mounting so quickly – or at least it felt quick, because time had sort of become meaningless, and for all Harry knew it had been years since Malfoy had first dragged that lovely tongue of his up Harry’s cock – and Harry didn’t want it to end, at least not like this—

When he used his grip in Malfoy’s hair to pull him back, it elicited a whine. Malfoy’s lips were swollen and pink and shiny with saliva, and there was only one thing Harry wanted more than to shove back in and come down Malfoy’s throat.

He grabbed Malfoy and pushed him back down onto the table. Malfoy, at least, seemed to be on the same page, because he spread his thighs at once and Harry’s cock nudged forward against the slickness that had coated his thighs.

“So wet for me,” Harry said, low and appreciative, into the side of Malfoy’s neck. “Just for me.”

“Just for you,” Malfoy agreed in a high, desperate voice. “Potter, please—”

“No one else will have you like this,” he whispered. “You’re only mine. No one will have you and _no one_ will hurt you.”

Malfoy whined desperately and arched his back off the desk. “Only yours,” he said, squirming, bucking his hips against Harry. “Please, please, _please_ —”

Harry grabbed both of Malfoy’s wrists, pinned them to the desk above his head, and pushed forward – with one long motion, he sank to the hilt inside of Malfoy and the sensation that followed so powerful that it felt like a head rush. Malfoy screamed out in desperate wanting.

“Only mine,” Harry repeated, burying his face in Malfoy’s hair to breathe in the scent of him. “Say it again.”

“I’m only yours.”

_Jesus._ Harry’s hips started to move, and every nerve in his body caught fire. He wanted to fuck Malfoy so thoroughly, embed his own scent so deeply, have him so completely that no one would ever challenge his claim. Harry barely understood his own desires and it didn’t matter at all.

He moved faster, and Malfoy’s body was like a wet, silken vise. Sweat beaded along Harry’s back, and he could see Malfoy starting to writhe, feel him clench up. Malfoy was nearing orgasm, he could tell, and Harry was overcome with the desire to wring it out of him so thoroughly that he wouldn’t be able to move for a month.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Harry whispered against Malfoy’s throat.

“Yes,” he rasped, hips bucking frantically against Harry’s thrusting. “Oh, Merlin, yes.”

“Then come, Malfoy,” he said, his grip on Malfoy’s wrists tightening as his own climax loomed. “Come for me.”

“I – I’m – oh, M-Merlin, Potter, I—!”

The sensation of Malfoy coming around Harry’s cock was incredible, as though his whole body was tightening, and there were stars in his vision and Malfoy’s hot release on Harry’s stomach and Malfoy was _his_ , he was _no one else’s_ , no one would ever have him and _no one would hurt him_.


	2. Drop

And then there was a war.

It lasted far too long and a lot of people died and there were times when Harry wasn’t even sure he was going to make it out the other side in one piece, but he did. He defeated Voldemort, fulfilled the prophecy, and became the savior of the wizarding world again (which, frankly, was starting to get a bit old hat).

Picking up the pieces after all that death and darkness was one of the hardest things Harry ever had to do. It didn’t help that so many of the people he’d come to know and love were gone, and that even with Voldemort dead, the government and society in general were still in shambles.

Harry knew that he had a lot to look forward to now that it was over, or at least that’s what everyone kept implying via raised eyebrows, knowing grins, and playful nudges to the ribs. He knew what they were expecting. He was the hero, after all; he’d saved the day, and all that was left to do was ride off into the sunset with Ginny Weasley and start the rest of his life.

So it was pretty inconvenient that Harry couldn’t stop thinking about Draco Malfoy.

It would have been more accurate to say that he’d never really _stopped_ thinking about him, even though he hadn’t seen him once after becoming his Secret-Keeper and hiding him and his mother away to ride out the rest of the war. Draco Malfoy dominated every dream Harry’d had while on the run from Voldemort’s corrupt government. He was the first thing on his mind when Harry woke up and his last conscious thought before he fell asleep at night. When Harry had walked into the Forbidden Forest to accept the Dark Lord’s killing curse, his final thoughts were that he would never see Malfoy again.

And during the war, it was fine – or at least, it was tolerable. There was never any time to think too deeply of these things, not when you were Undesirable No. 1 and an entire government was hunting you down. But the war was _over_ now, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get the git out of his head.

Worst of all, Ginny noticed almost immediately that something was wrong. After the Battle of Hogwarts she’d thrown herself into Harry’s arms and confessed that her affections had never waned, and they had agreed to be together, because really Ginny was everything Harry wanted, or at least she should have been. Unfortunately, she was also a lot smarter than Harry.

“It’s happening again.”

Her voice was gentle, breathless, but it made him flinch. He opened his eyes.

Ginny was over him, straddling him, her hands on her chest and her breasts and stomach covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She looked lovely on his cock, her face flushed with exertion and her ginger hair a mess of tangles, and it should have been a much more arousing sight than it was.

“Harry,” she whispered, “you’ve got to leave it behind.”

Ginny had assumed, not entirely incorrectly, that every time this happened, it was because the still-fresh memories of the war were eating away at him. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was also because, as nice as it felt to be inside her and as gorgeous and lovely as she was, he could not stop comparing her to Malfoy, and thinking about how much he would rather be fucking him instead of her.

It wasn’t a fair comparison, and Harry knew it. Malfoy was an omega, and sex with him would _always_ be better just by sheer force of biology. The only way he could ever successfully reach climax with her was when he thought about Malfoy, and that always felt dishonest and duplicitous.

“Sorry, Gin,” he said, and she sighed and slipped off him. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know it isn’t,” she answered, “but it’s been six months.”

Six months and their bedroom at 12 Grimmauld Place was still being unpacked. Six months and Harry still couldn’t be with his girlfriend in any meaningful way. Six months and he still couldn’t stop thinking about Draco Malfoy.

What the hell was _wrong_ with him?

“Harry, I think that you need to sort yourself out. Before we go any further with this, I mean.”

Harry rubbed his knuckles into his eyes.

“You can’t expect to be in a real relationship with anyone when you’re still so…”

“Incomplete,” Harry supplied at once.

He heard Ginny sigh. “Incomplete,” she agreed. He felt the bed shift as she lied down next to him and put a comforting hand on his chest. “You’re incomplete, Harry. There’s a piece of you still missing and you have to find it before you can really move on.”

Harry thought of Malfoy and felt a sharp tug of pain that went right to the core of him. He felt it every time he thought about Malfoy too much.

“I want to be with you,” she continued, rolling off the bed and rising to her feet to start gathering her discarded clothes, “but I just can’t, not like this. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Harry said, despite his better judgment. “It was supposed to work out. You and me, Ron and Hermione. It was supposed to be simple and perfect and easy.”

Ginny fastened her bra and frowned at him sadly.

“Harry,” she said, “nothing in this life worth having comes easy.”

He rolled his head to one side and looked at her. She was so pretty, with her pale, freckled skin and her long red hair. Harry desperately wished that he could want her more than he did, that she could be more to him than just Not Malfoy. If nothing else, she deserved it.

“Promise me that you won’t hang your happiness on me,” he said. “Promise that you won’t just sit around and wait.”

She smiled, bent down, and gave him a benedictory kiss on his forehead, just to the left of his scar.

“When have I ever been so simple?”

Harry laughed. He put on his dressing gown, walked her to the fireplace, and hugged her before she Floo’d back to the Burrow. He stood for a while, staring at the yellow-orange flames and thinking about everything.

Then he knelt down and made a fire-call. It took a few moments before anyone answered.

“This is Shacklebolt.”

“Shacklebolt, hi. It’s Harry.”

“Harry Potter! You’re up late.”

“You’re one to talk, you answered a fire-call at midnight.”

There was a raspy laugh. “I’m a workaholic, what’s your excuse?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” It wasn’t entirely false. Harry hadn’t gotten a real night’s sleep since before the war. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course. What’s on your mind?”

“Do you know what happened to the Malfoys? After Voldemort’s death, I mean.”

“Not much,” he admitted. “They left the unplottable house you set them up in. I’m sure they went back to England, since their name was cleared. I know Malfoy Senior took up his old position on the board of governors… and I think his son recently got engaged.”

There was a very powerful clench of jealousy so strong that it made Harry’s entire body jolt. “Engaged?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t tell you who to, though.”

Harry was furious. Furious, astonished, and impossibly, _cripplingly_ jealous. Who in the hell was engaged to Malfoy? What right did they have to him?

“Harry, are you all right? You’re breathing heavily.”

He was, too. And his hands were trembling almost uncontrollably. The surge of sheer, overwhelming emotion astonished Harry, but not enough to downplay any of the jealousy or anger.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, willing his voice to be calm.

“All right,” Shacklebolt answered doubtfully. “Why do you ask?”

_Because I’m incomplete,_ Harry wanted to say, but didn’t. He didn’t know if Malfoy was the missing piece that was keeping him from moving on, but every instinct in his body was saying that he was. He’d been trying for six months after the war – and a year during – trying to convince himself out of caring that Malfoy consumed so many of his waking thoughts, and it had gotten him here: Ginny was gone, he screamed in his sleep, and he felt nothing like the hero everyone thought he was.

He should have found him as soon as he could, Harry’s mind chided him. He should have gone right from Hogwarts to that little house on the northern coast of France and taken Malfoy away and—

—and what? What did he want from Malfoy?

_Everything,_ Harry’s mind responded at once.

That wasn’t really an answer, despite how much it felt like one.

Harry didn’t know what he wanted from Malfoy, but he did know that Malfoy being engaged was awful and completely unacceptable.

“Harry?”

“Uh, sorry. Nothing. I mean – thanks, Shacklebolt. I have to go, though.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Give my love to your wife, won’t you?”

“I will. Take care, Harry.” He really sounded like he meant it. Shacklebolt always did.

Harry ended the fire-call and sat back on his haunches, raking his hands through his hair.

Harry knew, in a very irrefutable and rational way, that he did not have any _real_ claim to Malfoy. Despite all the things they’d said those two nights they spent together (all of it fuelled by instinct and hormones, Harry was sure), Malfoy was his own person. The fact that he was an omega and Harry was an alpha meant nothing tenable.

So why was every instinct in him screaming to go find him again? And why did he want to rip this fiancé of his to bloody pieces?

 

* * *

 

Traditionally, a match between an alpha and an omega was comprised of three parts:

First, there was the presentation. The parents of the omega met with the alpha and introduced them to one another. This was almost entirely a formality. All matters of money and inheritance were worked out beforehand, the contract drafted but left unsigned. It wasn’t until the alpha first saw the omega, first smelled them, that any money would change hands.

Second, there was the wedding. There were a handful of customs that set an alpha-omega wedding apart from others, but they were mostly small and inconsequential. The primary features remained the same: family from both sides would come together, vows and rings were exchanged, and there would be a celebration afterwards.

Third and finally, there was the pledging, and after surviving (and hating) the first two parts, Draco decided that the pledging was the worst of the three.

“Dolohov is a good match for you, Draco,” his father said, and he looked so clean and handsome and impressive in his formal wedding robes that you never would have known he spent over a year in Azkaban. “Good blood, good money, good standing.”

Draco was sitting at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom of Snowbird Manor. That wasn’t its real name, of course (its real name was in Russian and utterly unpronounceable), but he’d been told that Snowbird Manor was the closest translation. It was named for the signet animal of House Dolohov, and it was the oldest building in the city (the name of which was also completely unpronounceable). With its marble floors and gilded chandeliers and exquisite antique furniture, it was the most beautiful prison Draco had ever been in.

As was tradition, Draco was wearing robes of black and silver, the colors of House Malfoy. He had been recently and thoroughly washed, and the smell of the jasmine soap still hadn’t faded from his skin. He was saying goodbye to his father, before saying goodbye to his mother, before his new husband came to strip him of his robes (or more symbolically, his old house), and claim him.

“It’s beneficial on both sides,” Father continued, idly studying the painting of a snowy forest on the wall. “It will help to elevate House Malfoy’s standing, and House Dolohov will finally have their next generation of heirs.”

As he often had, Draco considered telling him that he had bonded to Harry Potter. He knew that it wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – really change anything, but the same part of him that had never been able to look away from a natural disaster wanted to tell him anyway, just to see how his father might react.

At long last, Father looked away from the painting and regarded Draco. For the barest instance, Draco saw what might have been regret on his face. Father had been so quick to sell him off the moment Draco came of age, so quick to disinherit him, and the regret struck Draco as odd. Odd, but worthless.

“You will be—” he hesitated a moment, “—comfortable.”

Comfortable. Not happy, not fulfilled – _comfortable_. Draco decided at that moment that “comfortable” was the worst word in the English language.

“You will be comfortable,” he said again. “Be sure to answer your mother’s owls. You know how she worries. We’ll see you at Christmas, Draco.”

And then he left. Draco stared at the door in silence until it opened again and his mother came in.

Her face had none of Father’s composure. Ever since the wedding the day before, she’d been a sobbing, shuddering mess. Draco wasn’t sure what exactly it was that was making her into such a wreck – happiness? Sadness? Guilt?

“Draco,” she said, and she flew to his side and embraced him tightly. After a moment, he returned the embrace. “Oh, my sweet, sweet boy.”

It was nice to be in his mother’s arms, even if it brought him no comfort. Draco had long since passed the point where anything could comfort him about his situation.

“I know how bleak this seems,” she said into his ear as the embrace continued. “I’ve been where you are. It all seems so terribly daunting.”

Draco hugged her tighter. She wasn’t wrong.

“I know you’re bonded to – to another—” (by month eight, when Draco started sobbing at night for no other reason than he missed Potter so much, she stopped using his name) “—but perhaps this is what you need. Perhaps you can bond to Antonin, and begin to move on.”

Draco didn’t know if that was possible, though in fairness, no one did. These things simply weren’t known, not anymore. And in between everything else, after bonding to someone he’d spent six years despising and a year-and-a-half of crippling depression from not being around him, Draco was just tired, so tired. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew it wasn’t this.

“You must take a leap of faith, darling. You remember the song your grandmother used to sing you about a leap of faith, don’t you?”

He did, but he wanted to hear her sing it, so he stayed silent.

“ _Turn your back so all you’ll see is sky,_ ” she sang into his ear. “ _Drop from the edge and fall, and for a moment, you will fly, you will fly. Fall, and for a moment, you will fly._ ”

Draco was falling, he knew, but it felt nothing like flying.

They stayed as they were for a while, silent because there was nothing left to say, reluctant to let go because all that could follow was the rest of their lives.

When she left, tears were streaming down her face. She kissed his cheek and told him to be strong, and then left.

And then Draco was alone, waiting for his husband.

He arrived in short order, so quietly that Draco didn’t even notice until he heard the sound of robes rustling.

When Draco turned, he was standing by the door, idly pulling off the outer layer of his robes. Antonin Dolohov was a tremendously tall man – nearly two meters – but quite slender. The inky blackness of his hair was matched only by his eyes, which were utterly abyssal. Though he was nearly thirty years older than Draco, he was not unattractive. It was not so much his appearance as the cold, businesslike countenance that repelled Draco.

“When was your last estrus?” he asked, rather than offering any sort of greeting. He spoke with a throaty Russian lilt, one that Draco still wasn’t quite used to. He’d have to learn Russian, he supposed.

“It passed before the wedding,” Draco answered mechanically.

Dolohov nodded. “Stop taking your suppressants,” he said. “It is for the best if you’re pregnant sooner rather than later.”

Draco did his best to pretend as if the idea didn’t make him nauseous.

“Stand up,” he said, and Draco stood. Dolohov draped his outer robe over the chair near the door and crossed the room to stand in front of him.

He was close enough now that Draco could smell him. The scent was there – strong, heady, thick, distinctly and undeniably alpha – and Draco’s body thrummed in response to it, though he wished it wouldn’t. It was alpha, but it wasn’t _Potter_ , it wasn’t what Draco wanted, not really. It made him feel treacherous.

“If nothing else, the Malfoys certainly do come from good stock,” he said, reaching out and grabbing Draco’s chin to tilt his head up and study his face in the light. “Good bone structure, healthy – and very fertile, according to the diagnostic spells. A healthy omega is a rare find these days – let alone one so pretty.”

Draco knew that his assessment wasn’t meant to be a compliment. He wasn’t trying to flatter Draco, he was just making an observation, in the same way he’d remark on the weather.

Carefully, clinically, Dolohov reached down and undid the small silver clasps on Draco’s robes, one by one.

“I should think I’d require at least three heirs, though it is a custom of my house to have five or more.”

_Fucking Merlin, five?_

“You seem nervous.”

“I am,” Draco responded. He saw little point in lying to his husband.

Dolohov arched an eyebrow at him. He finished with the clasps and pushed off the robe – as was custom, Draco wore nothing underneath, and he shivered from the sudden flush of cold air on his skin.

“You have nothing to be nervous about,” he said. “You will carry inside you future dukes and duchesses.”

That he thought this fact would comfort Draco spoke volumes, but Draco said nothing. Abruptly, Dolohov grabbed Draco around the waist and picked him up, ignoring Draco’s yelp of surprise and sweeping him over to a handsome mahogany desk against the wall and placing him on top of it. The wood was smooth on Draco’s back.

Neatly, Dolohov spread open Draco’s thighs and made a vague noise of approval at what he saw. Without preamble he pushed one long, thin finger into Draco, which sent his whole body jerking. He wasn’t slick yet, but he was getting there – Dolohov’s mere presence was helping it along.

Dolohov started fucking Draco with the finger in slow, thorough, languid movements, and warmth spread through Draco’s body almost as fast as the sense of betrayal. He was shuddering and panting, but when he started to writhe on the desk, Dolohov put one hand on Draco’s shoulder and held him down firmly.

_I could hold you against the wall and fuck you with my fingers. How does that sound?_

Merlin, it felt like so long ago, but Potter’s words were still ringing in his head with perfect clarity. Maybe if he shut his eyes…

_Get you so wet that you ruin all your lovely tailored robes…_

A second finger joined the first and Draco keened, lifting his hips in a silent plea for _more, faster, deeper_. If he shut his eyes, it was Potter: Potter pressing him into the wall, Potter fucking him with his fingers, Potter getting him wet and ruining his robes.

_Keep going until you’re shaking and coming around my hand…_

“Yes,” Draco hissed. “Oh, Merlin, yes.”

A third finger pushed into him and Draco whined. Potter’s hands were so hot inside him, and they were in all the right places, knowing just where to go.

“Please,” Draco begged, “please, more.”

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Draco opened his eyes. The illusion shattered; it wasn’t Potter.

Dolohov was staring down at him, hungry-looking and feral. He pulled his fingers out of him and put one hand over Draco’s throat.

“You belong to me,” he said. “Say it.”

“I…”

Dolohov’s cock sank into him and Draco’s mind went white. It felt _incredible_ , so filling and so hot and so excellent but _it wasn’t Potter._

“Say it,” Dolohov repeated. “You belong to me.”

Draco shut his eyes again. “I belong to you,” he said, and the words tasted like betrayal.

Dolohov purred over him. His hand on Draco’s throat tightened – not enough to strangle him, but enough to make it hard to breathe. He started to fuck him, fast and thorough and unrelenting.

“Mine,” he said. “My omega, my husband, my heirs. Only mine.”

It would have been wonderful if it weren’t for the fact that it was a lie, and as Dolohov held him down and fucked him, came inside him, Draco shuddered and climaxed and thought of Potter, only Potter.

 

* * *

 

It took several weeks of hesitation between points ( _I have no reason to send Malfoy an owl_ ) and counterpoints ( _I also have no reason not to, and really, what’s the big deal_ ) before Harry broke down and sent him a letter for no other reason than he felt, inexplicably, like he had to.

It had been short and, hopefully, friendly and inoffensive. He congratulated Malfoy on his recent engagement, despite the fact that it was the last thing in the world he wanted to celebrate; he admitted the strangeness of contacting him after all this time and played it off with humor, even though the question was worryingly vexing; he asked him how he’d been since the War, and if he was free, maybe they could meet for a cup of coffee to catch up.

And to Harry’s absolute astonishment, he got an answer two days later.

The tenor of Malfoy’s response seemed cautiously optimistic with an overshadowing feeling of confusion. He thanked Harry for his congratulations and said that the engagement had recently become a marriage (which was so blindingly enraging that Harry almost couldn’t read on). He acknowledged that the sudden contact was a bit strange, but not entirely unwelcome. He said that he couldn’t stray too far from his new home in Nizhnevartovsk, Russia, but that if Harry wanted to catch up over coffee, there was a place in town they could meet.

Harry had no idea why Malfoy was so receptive to the idea of meeting him. Maybe it was the same reason Harry had talked himself into sending the letter in the first place.

Deep into winter as it was, Nizhnevartovsk was blanketed in snow, and it crunched under Harry’s feet the moment he came off the train into the airy, open station. It was a bright city, with a clear sky and sunlight glaring off snow, and from its perch on a low hill, the station commanded a splendid view of the skyline.

He charmed his robes to insulate him more effectively against the cold and set of into the city surrounding the station. His breath chased him in swirling plumes of mist as he walked, and despite his best efforts, he felt apprehensive.

Two blocks from the station, tucked between an apothecary and a tailor, there was a little coffee shop with a window made foggy by a thin layer of ice, though not foggy enough to obstruct Harry’s view of him.

Malfoy – he looked so very different, but still achingly, impossibly familiar. Skin like brushed porcelain, hair like spun platinum, and a perpetual look of fragility. In the years since Harry had last seen him, he’d gained a certain maturity to the sharp features of his face, a world-weariness. He stared out the window, away from Harry, into the street. He was sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and a book that he wasn’t reading.

He looked anxious, Harry realized. He felt a tremor of excitement at the realization that it was because of him.

Harry pushed inside, and a bell chimed to signal his entrance. It was a quaint little coffee shop, with tables circled around a central, blazing fireplace, but Harry didn’t notice any of it. Malfoy had turned around in his chair, and a moment of silence seemed to eclipse not just the room, but the whole city, as they met each other’s eyes for the first time in so many months.

“Potter,” he said, and there was a breathless quality to his voice, though perhaps Harry imagined it.

“Malfoy,” he answered.

Another moment lapsed between them. Harry kicked the snow off his boots and sat down across from him.

“I was surprised to get your owl,” Malfoy said.

“I was a bit surprised I sent it, to be honest.”

Another lapse of silence.

“How’s married life treating you?”

Simultaneously, they both looked down at Malfoy’s right hand resting lightly on his copy of _An Abridged History of Magic in the Western World_ by Hexulous Hoggart. There was a simple, handsome band of dark metal around his ring finger.

“You still don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?”

“What are you doing here? When I first got your owl I thought… but obviously you have no idea.”

Harry frowned. “What are you on about, Malfoy?”

“My name’s not Malfoy anymore.”

“What?”

“I’m an omega; I didn’t keep my surname. I married into House Dolohov.”

“Draco, then,” he said, because he was definitely not going to start calling him Dolohov.

“Do you even know why you’re here?”

Harry would have liked to answer him, but he didn’t quite know what to say.

Malfoy – Draco – sighed and turned away, staring out the window. “I should have known. It would be too much to ask of Harry Potter to educate himself on his own biology.”

“Glad to see you haven’t stopped being a git.”

“I’m not the one who came all the way to Russia without really understanding why.”

Harry frowned. “I – I just wanted to see you again.”

“And that didn’t strike you as strange? That you haven’t been able to get me out of your head once since sixth year? That you sent me an owl, hardly knowing the reason why, and wanted to see me again despite the fact that you’ve got a girlfriend?”

Harry stared in astonishment. How did he know all that? It took Harry a moment to gather himself enough to answer, “I broke up with Ginny.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he answered. “I’m betting I’m what broke you up.”

“How – Jesus, Mal— _Draco_ , how can you _possibly_ know that?”

Draco sat back in his chair and stared at Harry in marveling silence. “You really have no idea.”

“Not so long as you bloody well refuse to tell me!”

“We’re bonded.”

“We’re what, now?”

“ _Bonded_ , you idiot. It’s what happens when an alpha and omega have sex during an omega’s estrus. A complicated combination of magic and hormones that keep them attached to each other. It’s supposed to help assure the survival of the offspring. Did you not _research_ this? Weren’t you the least bit _curious_ as to why you couldn’t get me off your mind?”

“That…”

Surely that couldn’t be right. Even though it made perfect logical sense from an evolutionary standpoint, and even though it completely explained why he had never really stopped thinking about Draco since sixth year, it just couldn’t be right.

“That’s awful,” Harry said after a moment.

Draco snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Well fucking spotted, Potter.”

“No, but it is, though. I mean, we weren’t even given a _choice—!_ ”

“Biology is a harsh mistress,” Draco said tersely. “When I got your owl, I assumed you had finally figured it out and were going to do something about it.”

“And that’s another thing!” Harry said, voice rising in volume. “Why in God’s name didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I assumed you could figure it out on your own! I certainly did!”

“If I had _known—!_ ”

“What, Potter? You’d have come running back to me after the end of the War and professed undying love? My marriage to Dolohov had already been arranged by then.”

Harry’s train of thought did such an abrupt 180 that it derailed and went up in flames.

“Your marriage to Dolohov was _arranged?_ ”

“Of _course_ it was arranged! I’m a pureblood omega; that’s what pureblood omegas _do_. They’re put into arranged marriages with pureblood alphas and pop out pureblood babies so the whole bloody _cycle_ can continue.”

Harry was so angry he couldn’t even see straight. The entire situation was so incredibly infuriating that Harry’s heart was beating in his temple. He wanted to rip apart Antonin Dolohov for daring to challenge his claim over Draco. He wanted to hex Lucius Malfoy for forcing his son into a marriage against his will. And he wanted to topple the entire system that normalized it all, that made this sort of thing _acceptable_.

“What’s the matter, Potter?” came Draco’s voice, pulling Harry out of the angry fog of his mind. “Angry?”

“You’re fucking right I’m angry,” he said, voice low. “Aren’t you?”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. “Constantly,” he said. “I suppose I’ve just gotten used to the indignity of being property.”

Harry reached out and grabbed Draco’s wrist. Electricity crackled between them and Draco sat upright, tensing.

“You’re no one’s property,” Harry said.

“Not even yours?” Draco countered at once.

Harry grit his teeth and ignored the instincts roaring in his ears.

“I refuse to let that be the definition of my – my _bonding_ ,” he said. “I don’t want a prisoner, and I don’t want someone reduced to their capacity to carry children.”

Under Harry’s fingertips, Draco’s pulse started to quicken.

“I want you to be mine,” Harry continued, “and I want to be yours.”

“Fucking Gryffindors,” Draco said, but his racing heartbeat and unsteady breathing betrayed the calm of his voice. After so many years, he was still reacting to Harry, still wanted him just as badly as he wanted Draco.

He lifted Draco’s hand and planted a kiss on his wrist, which drew a delicious whimper out of him. Harry could smell him, that lovely smoky-woody-floral smell, distinctive but subdued, and with an undertone that was unmistakable—

“You’ll be going into estrus soon…”

He jerked as though hit by lighting, and abruptly, Draco yanked his wrist away. “I have to go,” he said. “I – there’s – I have to go. I’ll…”

“Draco!”

But he was already pushing out the door, tea and book forgotten, and Apparating away. Harry stared after him, instincts thrumming in his ear, the separation aching all the more now that the scent of Draco still lingered.

 

* * *

 

It had been so long since his first estrus that Draco had almost forgotten what it felt like. Now that he was reminded, he wanted nothing more than to forget again.

He’d nearly ripped his fine navy robes apart trying to get out of them on the first morning of his estrus, because despite the richness of the fabric, they felt unbearably, suffocatingly hot. He’d taken two baths and fucked himself raw on his fingers in a desperate attempt to smother the fire burning in his veins, but it wasn’t _enough_ ; his fingers weren’t _enough_. The desperate, aching hollowness in him was too big to be satisfied with his fingers.

And Antonin, _damn him_ , was gone until the evening. Something about a meeting with some kind of council. He knew, he _must_ have known, that Draco was going into estrus, that he’d be in _agony_ without him, and he went _anyway_.

And of course all Draco could really think about was _Potter_.

Potter, damn him, with his ashy-earthy smell and strong hands, coming back after so long and reminding him that Draco was still his, only his, after all this time. Potter, with his green eyes and thick cock, Potter with his heated whispers and self-assuredness and his sixth sense that knew exactly what Draco wanted, _damn him_ , why was it Dolohov and not him?

“Draco, there you are.”

The water in the bath sloshed around him as Draco jerked around. Dolohov was standing in the doorway of the bathroom with a small grin, and he smelled nothing like Potter, but he was an alpha, and in estrus, that was all that mattered to Draco.

“Antonin,” he said, though it came out more like a sob. He grabbed hold of the edge of the bath and tried to push himself to his feet, though his legs were weak underneath him. “Antonin, please—”

Dolohov closed the distance between them and caught Draco’s arms before he collapsed und his own weight, then made a series of soft tutting noises.

“Look at you, you’re a wreck.”

“Antonin, _please_ , I need—!”

Dolohov bent down and inhaled deeply, his grip on Draco’s arms steady and strong, and Draco’s words died in his throat.

“I know what you need,” he said, with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ripe for the picking, aren’t you? I would be a tremendous liar if I said I hadn’t been looking forward to this. It’s not every man who’s so lucky as to experience an omega in estrus, let alone have them carry his children.”

After nearly five hours of unendurable suffering, Dolohov’s words were almost completely meaningless. He didn’t want to talk; he wanted Dolohov to fix this horrible emptiness before he caved in on himself. Draco whined and pressed himself into his husband, drenching his robes with bathwater, clawing at him. “Please, Antonin,” Draco sobbed into his shoulder, “please, _please_ …”

“I can see already that the songs of this written by wizards of old were not in the least bit exaggerated.”

Dolohov’s hands slid down Draco’s back, pressing into his skin. One hand ventured lower than the other, and, quite abruptly, one of Dolohov’s long fingers breached into him. Draco spasmed.

“Hnnaa _aahh—!_ Antonin!”

“So wet already,” Dolohov said into Draco’s dampened hair, hungry and possessive. “Let’s sort you out, husband-mine. It is, I think, about time for you to be bred properly.”

Draco could have – and nearly did – sob in relief at his words. Dolohov swept Draco up into his arms and carried him out of the bathroom, into the adjoining master bedroom. The sheets and comforter were tangled and disheveled from when Draco had tried unsuccessfully to sleep through some of the agony, but Dolohov didn’t seen to mind. He laid Draco down and covered him with own body. Draco went back to clawing at the silver clasps on Dolohov’s robes.

 “I suppose the reassurance that we have three days ahead of us to indulge wouldn’t offer you much comfort.”

It didn’t. Draco continued ripping at his husband’s robes and managed to push the outer layer over his shoulders.

Dolohov smirked and it was all teeth. “To take the edge off, then.”

He cast a wordless spell and what was left of his robes dropped off his body like water. Before Draco had the opportunity to appreciate the spell and ask him which it was, his husband’s hand was on his throat and his thighs were being pushed apart. Draco would have gasped if it were possible to do so. Dolohov’s other hand gripped the base of Draco’s aching, straining, swollen cock, tight enough to ride the line between firm and painful, and all at once—

“Hnnn— _hhaaaaahhnn—!_ ”

As his husband’s cock pushed into him with one terrible-wonderful movement that split open his willing body, Draco could think of nothing but Potter, _oh, Merlin,_ Potter felt so good inside him, and some tiny shred of conscious brain was very glad that there was a hand on his throat, otherwise he might start saying things he’d regret.

The pace set was fast and ruthless and thorough. In his head, Draco could hear Potter’s voice in his ear, smell him, feel him, and the illusion was so thorough that he could lose himself in it and it was exactly what he wanted. He would have liked to buck and thrash and moan, but with the carefully placed hands on his body, he could do none of it: all that was left was the sensation, and it was quickly becoming unbearable.

And _painful_. The hand around his cock – was he—?

Above him, Dolohov growled. “Ready to come so soon? An omega in estrus really is oversensitive.”

He _was_ , and all the indulgent fantasy shattered like so much glass. Dolohov’s hand around his cock – he was _keeping him from climax_ , the absolute _bastard_.

Draco would have spat any number of vulgarities but for the hand on his throat, and all that came out was a desperate, high-pitched whine. It was already too much. Draco _ached_ from near-orgasm, not in a dull, generalized way but in a very sharp, incredibly painful throb centered to his pelvis. He _needed_ it, he needed it so _badly_ , he felt like he’d _die_ without it—

“Relax,” Dolohov said, hips unrelenting, sweat starting to bead on his brow. “The agony prolongs the ecstasy.”

Draco didn’t give a damn. The ecstasy would be meaningless If the agony killed him, and at the moment it felt like it might. Draco strained and arced and ached and scrabbled at his husband’s chest with his fingernails, but nothing he did seemed to have any effect. With every vicious thrust into him, the orgasm-that-wasn’t raged and ripped him to pieces.

It was reaching the point of unbearable pain and lightheadedness and the growing certainty that he really was going to die—

“ _Now,_ ” Dolohov said suddenly, and he’d scarcely taken his hand off Draco’s cock before Draco was spasming and coming so hard he couldn’t even see, so hard the world went sideways and slightly gray and he might have lost consciousness for a moment.

The thrusting, Draco noticed with a certain detachment, was still going, though the movements were slower and more languid. He could feel heat pooled deep in his pelvis, and it drew a shudder out of him.

The hand on his throat loosened, then dropped away. His husband pulled out of him with a soft, wet sound, and collapsed next to him on the bed.

It took a few moments for Draco to regain his senses, and a few moments more to make use of any higher functions. He still felt the thrumming buzz of his estrus, but it was muted, quieted from recent orgasm, thank Merlin. It seemed that climax afforded him a few hours of rest and a return to something resembling normality – necessary, Draco was sure, if estrus was supposed to last several days.

He moved to sit up, but felt Dolohov’s hand on his chest. He looked over with a frown.

“Stay down for now,” he said idly. “To maximize chance of conception, your body should be flat or angled slightly, letting the ejaculate pool against the cervix.”

Draco’s frown deepend. He didn’t really think anything would maximize the chance of conception, because two days ago he’d laced Dolohov’s drink with a potion to induce temporary sterility.

Still, there was no reason _Dolohov_ had to know that. Draco laid back down and released a breath.

“I’ll have a house-elf bring up some dinner for us,” Dolohov said, pulling himself to his feet and grabbing a dressing gown he’d draped over a nearby chair. “I don’t imagine there’s time for a formal meal in the dining room. You’ll be feverish again within an hour or two.”

Draco sighed, summoned his wand from the nightstand with a wordless _accio_ , and spelled away his own release from his stomach. His husband went to the bedroom door and shouted for one of the house-elves in angry, impatient Russian.

Draco knew that he had not bonded to Dolohov. Some part of him had always known he never would. There would never be anyone but Potter.

At that moment, he hated Dolohov. He hated him for buying into the system that reduced Draco to his womb, he hated him for presuming to purchase and own him, he hated him for everything.

He wondered if he’d still hate him if Potter had never found him that day in sixth year, if Dolohov had been his first alpha. Would he still feel this profound philosophical discomfort if he had bonded to Dolohov as he had to Potter? Would he still feel this impetus to rebel in some small way, even if it was just spiking his drink with temporary sterility potions?

The questions didn’t matter in any practical sense, perhaps, but Draco still found some comfort in the idea that there was some measure of his mind that was still his own. Even if he had been bonded to Dolohov, he would still hate him, still rebel against him, still be his own person.

“After dinner, we’ll sort you out again,” Dolohov said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and splaying his fingers over Draco’s abdomen, as if he was already pregnant. Draco found the gesture disgusting, and he wasn’t quite sure why. “That should keep you sated until morning, let you get some sleep.”

Draco stared back at his husband in silence, and something seemed to click:

Dolohov saw him as a womb, a receptacle for carrying children. What was keeping Draco from seeing him as a cock to help him through his estrus?

Turnabout, after all, was fair play. And after dinner, when the thrum of his estrus gradually roared back to life, Draco let himself slip away in the sensation, because that’s all it was: a sensation, fleeting and pleasant and utterly meaningless.

 

* * *

 

The knowledge that this was still not any of his business, not _really_ , kept Harry at bay for about three days, and then he was back in Russia again, for no other reason than he couldn’t keep himself away.

Snowbird Manor was, among other things, a historical site, and not particularly difficult to find. It was just past the edge of town, situated on a hill and surrounded by tall, metal, snow-encrusted palisades. At first look it seemed more a shadow than a building; it faced east and, late in the evening as it was, was shrouded by the sunset behind it. As Harry drew closer he had to admit that it if nothing else, it was a handsome structure: all gray stone and picture windows and flagstone paths.

When he knocked on the door, it didn’t take long before a house-elf, small and mousey, arrived to answer it. She stared up at him in confusion, her tapered ears twitching.

“Hello,” Harry said. “I’m here to see Draco. Is he in? I need to return his book.”

The house-elf inclined her head and stepped to one side, letting Harry in. He stepped inside and, as the heavy iron door closed behind him, admired the gleaming black-on-white marble foyer with the curling staircase and immense silver chandelier.

“Through this way,” the house-elf said with a Russian accent, which Harry privately thought was adorable. “I’ll go and summon Master Draco.”

The house-elf gestured him into a small sitting room that was so cozy you could almost forget how opulent it was. A fireplace roared in a massive hearth, a bay window looked out onto the snowy gardens, and decorative weaponry lined the walls.

But Harry wasn’t comfortable, and he didn’t sit. Lovely as it was, it was all wrong, because he knew what the building was, and what it meant. Harry stood by the window and stared out into the snow, listening to the sound of the wind on the glass and the fireplace crackling.

“Merlin and Circe, what are you _doing_ here?”

Harry turned and was almost knocked flat on his back at the scent and the sight that assaulted him.

It was Draco, in nothing but a long blue dressing gown. His hair was mussed, and he smelled so heavily of estrus that it took everything in Harry not to pin him to a wall and have his way with him.

“You can’t just _come over_ , Potter! You’re lucky house-elves don’t know alpha from omega; they’d throw you out.”

“What, you’re not _allowed_ to talk to people?”

“Not an alpha; not while I’m in estrus!”

“You could have refused to see me.”

Draco opened his mouth, but shut it quickly and glared instead.

“You forgot your book,” Harry said, reaching into his robe and producing _An Abridged History of Magic in the Western World_ from the inner pocket. “When we spoke a few days ago.”

“Like there’s even a chance that’s why you’re here,” Draco hissed. “You have to go; you have to go _now_. He’ll be home soon.”

“You’re right, sod the book,” Harry said, tossing it onto a nearby coffee table and crossing the sitting room towards Draco. “I’m not here about the book. Do you want out of this?”

Draco tensed, and Harry stopped a few feet away from him, because if he got any closer he was going to rip that robe off him.

“What do you mean, out?” Draco said.

“I mean _out,_ ” Harry said. “Out of the marriage. Out of everything.”

“Potter—”

“I looked up the old bylaws about alpha-omega marriages. I can challenge Dolohov’s claim over you.”

Draco’s eyes flew open, and he seemed too startled to speak.

“It’s a really old law, but it’s still in effect. If I challenge him to a duel for you and win, I can nullify the marriage.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious, Draco. The idea of you being held up here against your will is driving me mad. Say the word and I’ll get you out.”

“You realize that the old bylaw you mention would also transfer my marriage from him to _you_ , right?”

“Then you can divorce me right after,” Harry said quickly. “Stay, go, whatever you want. I just can’t – Draco, I can’t just sit there and _know_ that you’re in this situation!”

“Well, thank Merlin that Saint Potter came riding in to save the day!”

“I’m trying to _help_ you!”

Against his better judgment, Harry reached out and grabbed Draco’s arms. At once, he was overpowered by the scent of him, smoky-woody-floral, ambrosial, irresistible. Harry breathed it deeply.

“Potter,” Draco said, and his voice was wan, tight with restraint. “You can’t… you have to go.”

“I’m trying to help you,” Harry said. “Please, just let me help you.”

“He – he’ll be home soon, and—” mid-sentence, Harry leaned in and buried his face in Draco’s hair, in that gorgeous scent, “—oh, Merlin.”

“I don’t want him to be anywhere near you,” he muttered into Draco’s hair. “He has no right to you.”

“And you do?”

“You’ll only be mine if I’m also yours,” Harry whispered. “Just like I said.”

Draco moaned and it was the most wonderful sound Harry had ever heard.

Harry reached up and snaked his fingers through Draco’s hair, and it was as though nothing had changed. Everything was as it should be: Draco wasn’t in a marriage he hated, reduced to his capacity to bear children; Harry wasn’t insane with jealous wanting and anger. It was just them, electrified by each other, drunk from their senses, moving and needing as perfect complements.

Harry kissed him heavily, desperately, and Draco returned it in equal measure. There was a wall behind him and Harry pushed him into it, his hands leaving Draco’s hair and moving down to explore every inch of his body through the sheer velvet of his dressing gown. God, it had been so long, but they fell into it like it had been no time at all.

“Let me help you,” Harry whispered into Draco’s mouth. “ _Please._ I need this as much as you do. It was torture enough living without you, but the knowing that you were in a forced marriage…”

He could feel Draco’s nails dragging across the back of his neck, carving shallow furrows in the skin.

“I hate it,” Draco said after a moment, and his voice was tight with emotion. “I _hate_ it, I hate being reduced to my womb. I hate being a _trophy_ , a thing to be bought and sold and bred.”

Harry’s instincts were raging inside his head, screaming at him to _protect, protect_. Draco needed help and Harry needed to help him.

“I hate it so much and I’m utterly _disconsolate_ and _please_ , Potter, _please help me._ ”

“I’ll help you,” Harry promised, and his hands were fumbling with Draco’s dressing gown, tugging it open, and _God_ , his skin was so hot, so soft, “I’ll protect you, I’ll never let any harm come to you, not ever again—”

Draco cut him off mid-sentence with another kiss, more heated than the last, and Harry pressed into him, fingers on his chest, his stomach, his hips. Draco’s entire body was rolling against his, and when Harry’s hands slipped down and snaked lightly around his cock—

“Ah—hhaaa _aaahnnhh_ —!”

—and _God_ , just the sound of his _voice_. “God, Draco, do you even know what you do to me?”

Draco’s hips were bucking frantically, his cock moving rapidly against Harry’s palm.

“Every tiny detail of you controls me completely,” Harry said, hand moving more quickly to match Draco’s desperate movements. “I’m powerless.”

“You’re mine,” Draco whispered breathlessly. “And I’m yours.”

The words went straight to Harry’s cock and Draco’s hands ripped at his robes.

“Say it,” Draco hissed.

“I’m all yours,” Harry answered, and he could hear fabric tearing under Draco’s impatient hands. “I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

Harry’s robe came off, his shirt was ripped apart, and his trousers were pushed open just enough to free his aching, too-hard cock. It was good enough. Harry ground his hips forward, cock sliding against Draco’s, all satiny heat and feverish skin.

“I’m yours and you’re mine,” Draco said against Harry’s lips, “and if you don’t fuck me in the next ten seconds I’m going to lose my _fucking mind_ —”

Harry pushed one hand into Draco’s hair and used the other to grab his left thigh and yank it up to let it rest on his hip. With a bit of adjusting, his cock was sliding lower, through the wetness that had coated the back of Draco’s thighs.

“Yes, _Merlin_ , yes, Potter—”

Draco lifted his other thigh and Harry pushed him back against the wall more firmly to keep him up; the movement sent his cock sinking upwards and into that incredible heat and for a moment Harry forgot to breathe.

Draco was half-moaning, half-screaming into Harry’s hair, his hands gripping his shoulders so tightly that Harry was certain there would be bruises tomorrow. Draco’s legs wound tighter around Harry’s back and as Harry started to move sweat began to bead on his brow and on his back beneath his robes. Every movement into him was perfect, torturous agony and Harry couldn’t get enough of it. He couldn’t fuck him hard enough, couldn’t grip him tightly enough, couldn’t breathe in enough of his scent.

Draco was moaning Harry’s name again and again, rocking his hips down against him, and his body was starting to seize up around him in the crushing vise of near-orgasm. Harry could read the approaching climax in every line of Draco’s body like a map; the arcing lines of his neck, the taut muscles on his chest and stomach. And _God_ , it was so good, so impossibly good, he could even see the signs in himself.

Harry wasn’t sure if he was coming or dying; he’d done both, and they had never felt more similar than they did at that moment. An incredible mix of pleasure and pain that ripped him open and destroyed him utterly, and only as wave after wave of climax tore out of him was he slowly, slowly put back together.

In the back of his mind Harry knew it wasn’t just a construct he’d invented to make himself feel better about his possessive instincts: as much as Draco belonged to him, he belonged to Draco, and Harry would not ever let harm come to him, never again.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, Harry was gone. Draco had all but forced him out the door, insisting that if his husband came home while he was still here they’d both have hell to pay. He’d left Draco with a kiss, and it was such a strange and tender gesture that Draco could still feel it on his lips.

Three hours later, his estrus was over, or at the very least, it was ending. Estrus always began abruptly and ended gradually, and Draco knew his own body. By tomorrow, he’d have his senses back in full, and he’d be able to function like an adult.

Three hours later, he’d eaten and taken a bath and found a seat by the window in the master bedroom. There was so much that he had to think about, so many things that needed his consideration, but Draco felt disconnected from it all, and his thoughts were dominated completely by Potter and his promises and the hope that came with them.

Three hours later, his husband came home.

In the reflection of the window, Draco could see him – tall and starch and tense, and he knew at once that he must have figured out everything.

“You _whore_.”

Draco smirked.

“Do you have any idea how much I _paid_ for you?” Dolohov came storming forward, and he put himself between Draco and the window. He was livid, electric with fury, and it was utterly meaningless to Draco. “ _Twenty-seven-hundred galleons._ That’s a nontrivial portion of the Dolohov estate! And three days into your first estrus, I come home to the scent of _sex_ – of _another alpha_ in my own sitting room?”

Draco looked up at him wordlessly and took a sip of the tea he’d been nursing.

“I _paid_ for you! Do you understand me? I paid for you and you’re _mine!_ ”

Draco set the cup of tea down in the saucer on the end-table near the chair.

“He’s challenging your claim,” Draco said, his own voice a soft, calm foil to Dolohov’s hysterics and volume.

The words made him tense even further. “ _What?_ ”

“He’s challenging your claim,” Draco repeated, folding his hands in his lap. “I imagine he’ll be filing the paperwork tomorrow morning and setting the court date.”

Dolohov’s face twisted into a macabre smile. “Good,” he said. “ _Good._ That means I’ll be able to legally rip him limb from limb. Perhaps I’ll bring his head back as a _trophy_ , a _reminder_ —”

“Ambitious,” Draco interjected. “Do you really think you’re any sort of match for Harry Potter?”

The silence that fell over the room was deafening. Draco studied his husband’s face with great scrutiny, watching the emotions shift – anger, to confusion, to astonishment, back to anger.

“He did kill the most powerful wizard in the world,” he continued. “Say what you like about him, but his magic is strong. Stronger than yours, certainly.”

“You _harlot,_ ” Dolohov said, and his voice was rising again, “you _whore—!_ ”

“Is the name-calling meant to intimidate me?”

Dolohov bent forward, his hands on the arm of Draco’s chair, his eyes burning with rage. “What would your _father_ say if I—?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’d react just like you,” Draco answered easily. “You alphas are all the same – you all think the universe begins and ends at the tip of your cock. You can’t use my father to intimidate me, Antonin. Any respect I had for him dissipated when he sold me to _you_.”

Dolohov reached out and grabbed Draco by the jaw. “And you think Potter will be _different?_ ”

Draco bared his teeth and slapped Dolohov’s hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

“What did he promise you? Did he whisper sweet nothings? Tell you he loves you?”

“He did nothing beyond treat me like a _person,_ ” Draco hissed. “It’s more than can be said for you.”

“You’re nothing but a _prize_ to him, Draco. Like you said – we alphas are all the same.”

“Your words are worthless to me.”

Draco moved to shove past him, but Dolohov grabbed him my both shoulders, and before Draco could register what was happening, he was slammed into the window, which rattled precariously.

“ _Let me go!_ ”

“If you _honestly_ think he’s different, you’re _deluded,_ ” Dolohov hissed, his body pressed into Draco’s as Draco thrashed. “You’re an _omega_. He wants from you what all alphas want from omegas. It’s all you’re _good for_.”

Dolohov started ripping at Draco’s robes and, with a flood of panic, Wild Magic exploded out from Draco in all directions, shattering the window and sending Dolohov flying back several feet, knocking over the chair.

Draco fled from the room as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the bedroom, through the hall, down the steps, into the sitting room. His entire body was white-hot with fear and adrenaline and when Draco grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece, he called out the name of the only place he could think of, the only place where he knew he would be safe—

“Spinner’s End!”

The flames turned green and he hurried into them. The rush and the roar consumed him, warped space and time, sent him tumbling and falling through the void, and when he was spat back out, he landed on his hands and knees in utter darkness.

All he could hear was the sound of his own breath; all he could smell was dust.

Shaking, Draco produced his wand from his sleeve. “ _Lumos._ ”

The blue-white light illuminated the small, claustrophobic sitting room, and at once Draco was blinded with tears.

He shouldn’t have gone here. He should have gone somewhere – _anywhere_ else.

All the bookshelves had been emptied, all the furniture taken. It was familiar, yet so distant that it was unrecognizable. Snape’s house wasn’t meant to look like this, quiet and empty and cold.

With great difficulty, Draco pulled himself to his feet, though he felt like he could hardly stand.

There were times during the war when all that kept Draco going from day to day was the promise he’d made. He’d promised that he would never let Draco be sold to an alpha.

_You will not be abandoned._

None of this would have happened if Snape had lived. This ghost of a house would be full of books and bright with the light of the hearth. He would have talked his father out of selling him. And he and Potter…

The foyer was bright with moonlight and Draco sat down against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest.

_You will not be abandoned. I will not allow that so long as I am living._

But he wasn’t living. He was dead.

And Draco had never felt so abandoned.


	3. Fall

“Your mother was worried sick.”

Draco lifted his head, though he didn’t need to look to know who it was. The voice was unmistakable, and in the reflection of the mirror over the sink, his father stood as frigid and still as a glacier.

“Mothers tend to,” he answered easily.

The snarl that twisted his father’s features was revolting. “I don’t remember raising you to be so insolent.”

“The best laid plans.”

“How dare you be so dismissive of your father?”

“Is that what you are?” Draco asked. “Because when I last saw you, you were my pimp.”

The anger on his face set into rage. Draco took one of the towels draped over the edge of the sink and used it to dry his face. The toilets in the lobby of the Wizengamot Court were surprisingly decadent.

“What’s the matter? Does the truth make you uncomfortable?”

“These are traditions, Draco. Traditions our family has held to for generations.”

“Traditions aren’t good simply by virtue of being old.” Draco had learned that the hard way, over and over.

“You certainly didn’t mind them when you were younger,” Lucius growled.

“Well, I hardly had reason to. You assumed I was an alpha, or at the very least without a second sex. I never had any reason to fear being _sold_ like a piece of property.”

Lucius took a half-step forward as Draco turned, his grey eyes burning. “You think it was _easy_ for me?”

“I’m sure you were weeping into your twenty-seven-hundred galleons,” Draco snarled.

“ _You are my son!_ ”

“ _Then you shouldn’t have sold me off!_ ”

They had always been more similar than they were different. Draco knew that neither of them were going to back down; they were both too assured of their own correctness. He took a breath, straightened, and smoothed out his robes.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Draco said. “I’m going to go before the Wizengamot. After all the pomp and politesse is out of the way, Dolohov is going to forfeit his claim to me because he’s not a match for Harry Potter and he knows it. Proud as he is, he’s not going to risk his neck.”

“Draco—”

“And when I leave this building, _I never want to see you again._ ”

His father’s mouth became a long, hard line, and his expression was inscrutable.

“And Father, I am so deadly serious that I _dare_ you to challenge it. I never want to see you ever again. Not at parties, not at holidays, not _ever_. Just looking at you now makes me sick to my stomach.”

“There is nothing—” he began, but Draco wasn’t interested.

“You sold me. You sold me like I was a _thing to be sold_. You sold me to a man who cared nothing for me past the fact that I could carry children. You sold me to a man who tried to _force himself on me_. You _sold me_ , Father, and at _no point_ during the whole, drawn-out process did my thoughts or feelings or desires _make the slightest difference_. This is – it is so far beyond betrayal that I am tempted to hex you where you stand!”

His father’s nostrils were flared, and his expression was deadly.

“And you really thing that Harry Potter, of all people, is going to make you happy?”

“He doesn’t have to make me happy,” Draco said. “All he has to do is undo your atrocity. Goodbye, Father.”

And Draco left because if he didn’t he really would hex him. When he made it back into the wide, marble lobby, he took a deep, centering breath. He had no time for anger.

When he crossed through the lobby and into the waiting room outside the main court, there were several dazzling flashes of light and a surge of sound.

Reporters. Damn.

They were all shouting questions and taking photos, and Draco did his best to reorient himself and wave them off. Really, he should have expected this – there was nothing about this situation that _wouldn’t_ attract the press. An alpha hadn’t challenged another alpha to their claim over an omega in centuries. That it was Harry Potter fighting for a claim over Draco Malfoy just made it better.

“No comment, you vultures,” Draco said, pushing his way through the mass. “Let me through.”

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he almost swatted it away – until, of course, a familiar scent teased his senses. He turned and saw—

“Potter.”

“They have to stay behind the line,” he said, gesturing to a large yellow stripe on the floor. “Come on.”

Draco followed him away, ignoring the shouted questions, which now began with equal parts “Mr. Malfoy” and “Mr. Potter”. When they made it past the yellow line on the ground, a glimmer of magic hummed and the room suddenly was quiet – they must have been behind a silencing charm, as well.

“How do you put up with it?” Draco couldn’t help but ask.

“Glamour spells and alcohol, mostly.”

Draco smirked.

The rest of the waiting room was quiet and nondescript. It wasn’t as lavish as the main lobby, but it was clean and simple and quiet.

“What’s the time?” Draco asked, patting himself down for his fob watch, but Potter answered before he could find it:

“Half-nine. We’ll be going in soon. Where’s Dolohov?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“You didn’t come with him?”

“No,” Draco answered thoughtfully, and he sat down at a chair against the wall, where he could see the reporters still frantically taking notes and photos. “I thought it best to keep my distance after he tried to rape me.”

Potter had just sat down next to him, and he quite abruptly seized up in his seat. “He _what?_ ”

“Relax,” he said. “I got out and I’ve spent the interim weeks in some of London’s finest hotels and restaurants. It’s basically been a vacation.”

“I’ll fucking _kill_ him—!”

“You’ll have to do it on your own time. He’s going to forfeit his claim.”

The anger didn’t altogether vanish from Potter’s face, but it did seem to settle. “What? How do you know?”

“Because he’s not stupid. He knows that he’s not a match for you, physically or magically. And even if he was, you’re _Harry Potter_. He wouldn’t want to kill you even if he was legally allowed to it. He’d be hunted down in the street.”

Potter frowned. “Oh.”

Draco looked over at him and spent a moment studying his expression. “You seem disappointed.”

“I was sort of looking forward to killing him, to be honest.”

“Since when does Harry Potter believe in two wrongs making a right?”

“Since about twenty seconds ago when you said he tried to rape you.”

Draco didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He folded one leg over the other and turned back to the flock of reporters, quarantined behind the yellow line and silencing spell.

“I haven’t been reading the papers,” Draco said. “What are they saying about us?”

“It’s all over the map,” he answered, leaning back in his chair. “Some think it’s a secret love affair, some think I’m exacting revenge on your father, some think it’s one giant political maneuver somehow. Sorry, by the way.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“I tried to keep the whole thing quiet, but it got out somehow.”

Draco shook his head. “They’re a matter of public record. It would have gotten out sooner or later.”

His words didn’t seem to mollify Potter. When Draco looked away and back at the reporters, they were turned away from them, taking pictures and waving their notebooks in the air.

“Fashionably late,” Draco said. “As always.”

Potter tensed. “It’s Dolohov?”

“Who else could it be?”

“If he gets too close to you, I’m going to hex him,” Potter said, and it didn’t sound like a threat so much as it did a sort of precautionary warning.

“Yes, well, do us a favor and aim for the cock.”

Potter laughed, just once, and for some reason, it surprised Draco. He looked over and saw that he was smiling. It wasn’t an expression Draco was used to eliciting from him, let alone seeing on his face. It made something deep in Draco’s stomach twist.

Potter met his eyes and seemed to notice the change in his face. “All right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“You seem a bit…”

Draco raised an eyebrow at him rather than responding, and after a moment Potter shook his head.

“Look,” he said, changing the subject, “when this is all over—”

“CASE #393274-JX IS CALLED TO SESSION,” came a woman’s voice, rattling through every corner of the room. “ALL PARTIES TO THE COUNCIL FLOOR.”

Draco rose and smoothed out his robes. “Right,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Potter stood. “Would it be in bad taste to request a kiss for good luck?”

Draco did his best to pretend as if the question weren’t surprising. “What is it about my kisses that you think is lucky?”

“Well, I’ve noticed quite a correlation between kissing you and good days.”

The large oak doors leading into the Wizengamot groaned as they opened. In the corner of his vision, Dolohov pushed past the yellow line. And maybe to piss off his husband, or maybe to give the reporters something to gawk at, or maybe because he hadn’t really thanked Potter properly yet, he yanked him forward by the robes into a kiss.

When they broke apart, Potter was smiling. “I’m feeling lucky already.”

 

* * *

 

Harry was disappointed, though not entirely surprised, to discover that Draco had been right and Dolohov forfeited his claim at first opportunity. By law, Draco’s marriage was transferred to Harry, which he thought was enormously unfair for all parties involved, but he saw little point in shouting at a broken system.

The outcome must have been announced before they even left the courtroom, because by the time they made it out into the lobby they were once again swarmed with reporters, all of them shouting for explanations and details and predictions of what might come next. Harry had half a mind to flip them the bird, but Draco seemed to have the presence of mind to sneer and offer a curt “no comment”. Unfortunately, they were followed all the way out of the Ministry and it was only once they were in the Apparation zone that they managed to make their escape.

“Sorry about that,” Harry said.

“Hardly your fault.”

Draco looked around at all the half-unpacked boxes lining the walls. Grimmauld Place had been in the same state of incomplete chaos since Harry first moved his things in six months ago.

“It’s a bit of a mess.”

“Clearly.”

“You can stay if you want.”

Draco looked away from the mountainous pile of boxes against the wall and raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t have to,” Harry said. “I’m not going to be a new Dolohov. You can do what you like. But things just – everything seems a little bit better when you’re around.”

Draco’s response wasn’t immediate. Eventually, he hummed. “That’s the nature of the bonding,” he said. “My mother once described it as not love, but something like it.”

Harry rubbed his chin and realized he needed a shave. “I suppose it makes sense. Evolutionarily, I mean.”

“I don’t want to be an imposition, of course—”

“It’s not an imposition,” Harry said at once.

“—but I don’t have very many alternatives.”

That surprised Harry. “You don’t? You can’t go back to the Manor?”

Draco’s lips curled away from his teeth in a sneer of disgust. “Back to the father who sold me off?”

That was a good point.

“I’ve been officially disinherited. And since my marriage to Dolohov was nullified, I no longer have access to any money. Staying here seems…” He paused a moment, hunting for the right word. “… reasonable. At least until I find some sort of stability. A steady job, a flat.”

“You can stay as long as you like,” Harry assured him. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

Draco peered around the foyer into which they’d Apparated, then crossed into the sitting room. Harry followed him; the living room was perhaps the worst offender of incompleteness. The kitchen and bedroom and bathrooms had all been unpacked by necessity, but the sitting room was still bare, and all the things he didn’t immediately need were tucked away in a giant stack of boxes in the corner.

“How long have you been living here?” Draco asked.

“Six months now.”

“Six months? And you still haven’t unpacked?”

“You know how it goes,” Harry said. “You always mean to, but it keeps slipping your mind.”

Draco frowned like he didn’t quite believe him, and Harry couldn’t blame him. Six months was an unusually long time to still not be unpacked.

“I haven’t unpacked the second bedroom either,” Harry suddenly remembered. “I – damn. I can take the couch, if you like? I wouldn’t want to…”

When Harry’s words faded, Draco smirked.

“Potter, we’ve done far more intimate things than share a bed.”

Despite himself, Harry laughed.

“Considering the number of times you’ve put your cock in me, I think we can assume sleeping in the same bed won’t be awkward.”

Harry bit down on the smile to keep it from growing too big. “I just mean, it might lead to unintended consequences. We do have a history.”

And then, Draco was in front of him, straightening out his nice-but-rumpled robes that Harry had chosen for the court date. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I just don’t want to imply there’s any obligation. There isn’t.”

“I know there isn’t,” Draco said. “Despite your insistence, I am extremely aware of the fact that you’re not Dolohov and always have been.”

Harry took in a breath. The gorgeous smoky-woody-floral scent teased him, ambrosial and intoxicating and strangely calming. “Is there any real probability we’ll be able to keep away from each other?”

“It’s doubtful,” Draco answered, and he leaned in and bit down lightly on Harry’s lower lip, just once, just briefly. “We’re biologically programmed to each other.”

“Nnhmm.” Harry didn’t even really know what that meant, but it sounded _great_ , for some reason he couldn’t quite determine. He ran his hands down Draco’s sides, which brought him closer. “It’s strange. I know you haven’t really changed. All the traits I couldn’t stand about you three years ago are still there. But I just—”

“—don’t care as much,” Draco finished. “I know. It’s the same on my end.”

That was more relieving than Harry expected it to be. His hands slid around and firmly grabbed the backs of Draco’s thighs, pulling him in more closely. “I always sort of thought we started out on the wrong foot, anyway,” Harry admitted.

Draco ground his hips into Harry’s, making a delightful little purring sound that went right down Harry’s spine and into his cock. “I was a bit of a prat to you, admittedly,” he said, breathlessly.

“We were both young,” Harry said. “Stupid.”

“Robes off,” Draco breathed against Harry’s mouth, and they spent several entirely-too-long moments ripping at their own and each other’s clothes. “The whole Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry was so cliché, anyway. Utterly overdone.”

“I really want to suck you off,” Harry said, and Draco groaned.

Draco collapsed on the sofa and Harry eagerly fell on top of him, kissing hot lines down his throat and chest as Draco worked off his trousers.

“I – I always sort of admired you, in a hateful way,” Draco admitted breathlessly, as Harry helped him with the trousers. “I mean, I did despise you, but I also wanted to be you – seeker as a first year, popular with everyone, star of your hhh— _aaaah!_ ”

Harry had ducked his head and taken Draco’s cock down in one movement. He could feel Draco’s entire body tense underneath him.

“Oh, fucking Merlin, _yes_.”

He felt Draco’s hands knot in his hair and he rocked his hips, and it egged Harry on in his movements. Draco tasted divine, smooth and hot and salty, and he was so _responsive_.

“And it d-didn’t help that you turned out as gorgeous as you did. Merlin, you hit puberty like an exploding star, all those years of Quidditch…”

Harry smirked around Draco’s cock and ducked his head low, letting the head brush against the back of his throat. It drew a gorgeous noise out of Draco and Harry slid his hands up his stomach and onto his chest.

“I… nn, Harry, I’m going to come…”

There was nothing in the world Harry wanted more at that moment. He nudged one of Draco’s thigh aside and speared two fingers neatly into the slick, wet heat between his legs. Draco let out a strangled cry and bucked his hips down against him. Harry could feel him tightening up around his fingers, the clutching vise of near-climax.

“Hnn—haaaa _aaarrryyyyyyyyyy—!_ ”

The trembling gave way to shuddering, the jerking to thrashing, and Draco, looking like something out of a wet dream, arced and shook and came, screaming, into Harry’s mouth. Harry kept moving until it died back down to trembling and jerking, until he’d drawn every last drop of his orgasm.

He swallowed neatly and pulled off, smirking up at him. “I think that was the first time you called me Harry.”

Draco was still panting and trying to gather his wits. “Was it?”

“I like hearing you say it. It’s much nicer than ‘Potter’.”

Harry wetly licked the tip of Draco’s slowly softening cock. Draco looked down at him and grinned. Then he sat up, leaned forward and kissed him. Harry returned it eagerly, snaking his fingers through Draco’s hair.

“Lie down,” Draco muttered against Harry’s mouth.

He lied back obligingly. Draco crawled forward on his knees and straddled Harry’s lap.

“You like it when I use your given name?”

Harry hummed. Draco looked gorgeous on top of him, and he drank in all the lines of his chest and shoulders and stomach. The sight of it made his cock throb painfully, and when Draco shifted his hips, letting it slide against the slickness of his thigh, Harry’s head fell back.

“You like to hear your name when you make me come?”

Harry reached up and gripped his hips tightly. “God, yes.” Draco shifted again and sank down with one even movement and— “ _Jesus._ ”

Draco started rolling his hips, bracing his hands on Harry’s chest as he rode him, slowly at first, and then gradually with more speed. “Well, we are married now, aren’t we? It’s only right I call you Harry. Especially when we’re fucking.”

Harry’s grip on Draco’s thighs tightened as the pace quickened. He screwed his eyes shut because if he had to watch him ride his cock he wasn’t going to last.

“Nhmmm,” Draco purred, his fingernails raking down Harry’s chest. “Every time Dolohov had his way with me, I was thinking about this. About _you_.”

_Jesus Christ._ Harry’s entire body twitched in deep, instinctual, visceral pleasure.

“Even if it is just biology, he never could have hoped to compare… your cock will be the death of me…”

“Fuck,” Harry croaked, his back arcing off the sofa. “Fuck, Draco, I—”

“Come for me, Harry,” Draco purred, and Harry came – so hard he was spasming and screaming, so hard his world turned white, and everything was exactly as it should be.

 

* * *

 

“How are you settling in?”

“Well,” Draco answered. “Surprisingly well. I mean, I have my grievances – he’s not as clean as he could be, and he has no table manners to speak of, but he’s pleasant company. Charming, when he wants to be. I’ve been helping him unpack…”

She smiled and lightly sliced off a piece of her duck. “I think you’re right where you should be, darling,” she said. “I’m sure you can both be happy if you let yourselves be.”

Draco took a sip of wine and watched as she ate. The single candle on the table lit her features with a pale yellow-orange glow.

“How’s Father?” he asked against his better judgment.

She frowned.

“Unbearable, I imagine,” he continued, finishing off his wine.

“You know your father,” she said carefully. “He’s taken this whole thing as a defeat, and he’s never handled defeat very well. He misses you, darling.”

“If he had any real interest in seeing me, he’d be mending fences.”

“He’s very proud.”

“Aren’t we all?”

His mother sighed and carved into her duck again. Draco felt a tremor of guilt. He shouldn’t be putting her on the spot like this. He didn’t want to force her to pick sides, not between her son and her husband.

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

She smiled and reached across the table to pat his wrist. “You mentioned in your letter that you’re looking for employment?” she asked, seeming more than happy to change the subject.

Draco hummed. “There’s a disused laboratory in the cellar of Grimmauld Place,” he said. “I’ve been thinking of perhaps putting it to use by brewing potions for local apothecaries.”

“Oh, that would be a lovely use of your talents.”

“It would be a good source of income, as well. And it would certainly be a favorable alternative to puttering around the house and unpacking all his things. What a project that’s turning out to be.”

“I thought he moved in months ago.”

“He did,” Draco sighed. “You wouldn’t know to look at it, though. The place is in chaos. I’m doing what I can, but I feel like I barely make a dent.”

She hummed thoughtfully and finished the last bite of her duck, then took a sip of wine.

“He screams sometimes,” Draco said quietly. “In his sleep.”

A look of concern passed over her face. She set her wine glass down.

“I don’t think he ever really healed from the War,” he continued. “He’ll wake up in the middle of the night, thrashing and screaming. I’ll hold him and soothe him and it seems to calm him down, but it still happens, sometimes twice a week.”

“War is cruelest to its heroes,” she said.

“I want to help him,” Draco said. “I’m desperate to help him. But I worry that there’s nothing I can do.”

“Oh, darling,” she said. “That’s understandable. He’s your alpha. You’ll feel a natural inclination to nurture. I went through the same thing with your father when he came back from Azkaban.”

That surprised Draco. He’d never once mentioned Azkaban to him; in fact, he’d gone out of his way to avoid mentioning it.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“The best thing an omega can do for their alpha,” she answered. “I was there for him. When he roused to nightmares, I kissed him and reminded him it was a dream. When he was forced into the same room with the Dark Lord’s dementors, I held his hand and reminded him they would not hurt him again. Most alphas will never admit just how soothing their omega’s presence is in times of crisis, but there has never been a psychological obstacle an alpha hasn’t been able to overcome with the help of their omega.”

Draco took a bite of his pork loin. The idea that he could help Harry through the scars left by the War simply by _being_ there was deeply comforting. His mother hadn’t been wrong – he did feel a very deep, profoundly primal instinct to soothe Harry, to make him feel better.

“I didn’t know Azkaban rattled him so much,” Draco said.

“More than he ever admitted out loud,” she answered with wan smile. “It’s not in his nature to show weakness.”

“Do you love him?”

The question surprised Draco as much as it did his mother. She didn’t respond immediately; she looked down at her mostly empty plate and considered her words before she spoke:

“It was not an immediate thing,” she said, “but yes. I came to love him eventually.”

“Did you have any agency in it? Did you fall because you fell or did you fall because your instincts pushed you?”

“Your bond cannot force you to love, Draco,” she told him. “It can make separation feel like a knife wound; it can make you prioritize your alpha’s life over your own; it can make even the worst problems conquerable; it may even facilitate love, but it cannot force it. I fell in love with your father when I saw him hold you for the first time.”

She smiled then and looked to the side, the pleasant memory written all over her face.

“He had a look of open sincerity and joy. You became the center of his universe, and I knew he loved you just as much as I did. He put family above all things, and I loved him for it.”

Draco’s first thought was how sad it was. He wondered if his father still felt that way, after doing what he did, after Draco said what he said.

His second thought was _Merlin, that I could have such a love._ He thought of Harry, swearing to protect him, kissing him desperately, taking his ex-husband to court over him, and wondered if the little twist in his stomach was the beginning of love.

They paid for dinner and walked together, arm-in-arm out of the restaurant. Outside, snow was falling, glittering even in the light of dusk.

“It was good to see you, Mother,” he said, his breath caught in a gust of wind that danced and twirled into the air.

“How could I ever stay away?”

They embraced.

“Draco…”

There was something in her voice that made Draco frown. He withdrew from her arms and looked down at her – she had a look of quieted alarm on her face.

“Mother? What’s wrong?”

“Your scent…”

Draco’s frown only deepened. “What about my scent?”

“I’ve smelled that before,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“You – Draco, you don’t know?”

“What are you talking about? What don’t I know?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but said nothing, and shut it tightly. She stared up at him, and to his astonishment, her eyes were glassy with tears – happy or sad, he couldn’t quite tell which.

“Mother—!”

“Draco,” she said, “you’re pregnant.”

Draco felt dizzy. His vision tunneled slightly. “What.”

“I know what an omega smells like when they’re pregnant,” she said. “When Andromeda…”

“That – no,” he said. “That’s not possible.”

“Draco—”

“Mother, it’s _not possible,_ ” he said, more firmly, even though he felt nauseous. “My last estrus was with Dolohov, and I spiked his drink with a sterility potion specifically to _avoid_ pregnancy. He couldn’t have—”

Realization hit him like a train and Draco nearly lost his footing.

“Draco!” she said, catching him by both arms. “Draco, sit down.”

She guided him over to a bench just outside the restaurant. It was frosted with snow, but Draco scarcely noticed.

“Oh, Merlin,” he said, covering his mouth. “Mother – it’s not – Dolohov couldn’t have – Mother, it’s _Harry’s_.”

His mother bit down hard on her lower lip and slowly sat down next to him.

“Oh, Merlin,” he said again, bending forward and raking his hands through his hair. “He came over during the last day of my estrus t-to ask if I wanted out of the marriage – I was off my suppressants, I didn’t…”

“Draco…”

“Oh, God,” he said, finding that it was suddenly hard to breathe. “Oh, Merlin, this can’t be happening.”

“Draco, darling, you must calm down.”

She pulled him into her arms and hushed him. And despite the fact that he was now twenty, he had never been more eager to be whispered soothing things by his mother.

“This is a very personal choice,” she said when Draco finally started to calm down. “No one can make it for you, not even your alpha. By your smell, you aren’t that far along. You haven’t been experiencing morning sickness, have you?”

Draco shook his head weakly.

“Less than six weeks in, then,” she said. “You have time, my darling. You have time to think and consider your options.”

That was a mercy, Draco knew – but at the same time, he doubted that there could possibly _be_ enough time. He was too scared, too shocked, to overwhelmed to know what he wanted, and at that moment he felt like stars would burn out and galaxies would rip apart before he could even hope to know.

 

* * *

 

Harry wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, and if anyone were to ask he’d deny it vehemently, but Draco moving in had been the best thing to happen to him since the War ended.

In the months he’d spent alone – even the months he’d spent with Ginny – he would wake to nightmares every other night, screaming and shaking and drenched in sweat. But something about sharing a bed with Draco – something about having his familiar, comforting scent so close by – kept them rare, and somehow milder.

And then there was the fact that Draco could cook – which surprised Harry, who’d assumed that he’d never had to cook and therefore never had the compunction to learn how – and it was all too easy to get used to coming home after a long day on the field to a gorgeous, home cooked meal.

Draco had also taken it upon himself to start unpacking all the boxes that had been there for so many months. It was a long process, but Draco was methodical, focusing on one room at a time. By the end of their first month, many of the rooms on the ground floor were completely unpacked and actually looked normal.

And the _sex_. _God_ , the sex.

Harry liked to think that he wasn’t shallow – he appreciated Draco for everything that he was and was doing – but it was hard to pretend like the sex wasn’t one of the best parts of it all. Harry had had him in more ways and in more positions than he could count, and it was incredible every time. With Ginny, it had been a constant struggle to find the passion, and sometimes to even maintain interest – but with Draco, there were times when morning sex made him late for work and food burned on the stove because he’d he was fucking him on the kitchen table and they’d both completely forgotten that anything else existed.

For the first time in so many years, Harry felt like he was actually living his life instead of just experiencing it. He found work more interesting. He looked forward to coming home. Maybe much of it was just the bond – Harry wasn’t sure – but he didn’t care. How could he, when he was finally seeing the world in color again after two years of monochrome?

It followed logically that the first signs of shadow in the sunshine were particularly alarming.

When he came home from dinner with his mother, Harry knew at once that something was wrong. He felt it, knew it like he knew himself. Draco was upset. He could smell it before he even came upstairs into the bedroom.

“Draco?”

No answer. He’d been waiting up with a cup of tea charmed to stay warm, and the silence distressed him further. He slid off the bed, kicked on his slippers, and moved downstairs.

“Draco? Are you all right?”

At the base of the stairs, near the door, Draco was leaning against the wall. He seemed heavy somehow, like there was some tremendous weight on him, and the sight of it rattled Harry’s nerves.

“Draco, what’s wrong?”

When he reached the landing, he noticed that Draco’s eyes were red from recent tears.

“Draco!”

He gathered him at once into his arms. His reaction wasn’t immediate. After several seconds of silence, Draco returned the embrace and buried his face in Harry’s hair.

“Are you okay?”

“I…”

“You’re not hurt? Did something happen at dinner?”

“I’m not hurt.”

“What’s—?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.”

_Wait, what?_

“I’m pregnant,” Draco said again, as though he was trying to convince himself. “It’s yours.”

A beat of silence passed. Harry drew back and looked at him. Sincerity and desperation and fear were drawn into every line of his face.

“You’re… oh, my God.”

“I… I don’t – Harry, I don’t know what to do, I…”

Harry tried to swallow a lump in his throat, but it stayed firmly in his windpipe.

“I’ll make tea,” he said. “I mean, I made you tea. There’s tea waiting upstairs, but it’s decaf.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll probably need something stronger.”

“Yes.”

They walked into the kitchen. Draco sat down and Harry set the kettle to boiling. He puttered around the kitchen, looking for cups and teabags and sugar. His hands felt numb and awkward. He dropped the sugar spoon twice.

When everything was on the table, Harry sat down in the chair next to Draco and waited for the water to boil.

Hesitantly, Harry looked over at him. He seemed to be in a state of shock – face pale, or paler than usual at least, eyes glazed over. He was looking at the placemat, but Harry doubted that he was actually seeing it.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Harry swallowed. “And you’re sure it’s…?”

“It’s definitely yours,” Draco said. “It can’t be anyone else’s.”

“What about—?”

“I spiked Dolohov’s wine with a sterility potion before my estrus started.”

And despite himself, Harry laughed. Just once. He would have congratulated Draco on a good idea if it weren’t wildly inappropriate.

“And besides him, there was just you. Only you.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Okay. You’re pregnant. You’re pregnant with our child.” _Jesus Christ._ “So that makes you – what – about a month along?”

“About.”

Harry looked over at the kettle. It still wasn’t boiling.

“So, uh,” Harry began haltingly, “what – I mean, what do you—?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

Another lapse of silence stretched.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t, either.”

Draco didn’t answer. He hadn’t looked away from the placemat.

“It’s – it’s _your body,_ ” Harry said. “It’s absolutely your body and it’s your choice and I know that and I’m not going to – I wouldn’t dream of pressuring you—”

“I know,” Draco said.

“I just don’t want you to think—”

“I don’t,” Draco said.

He looked at the kettle again, even though it had only been a few seconds since he last checked.

“All the choices just seem impossible.”

Harry looked back.

“Forgive me for my frankness, but there are only three, aren’t there? I can abort, give it up for adoption, or become a father. Every instinct in my body is screaming against aborting, the very idea of my child being raised by anyone but myself nauseates me, and how can I…”

Draco bent forward and raked his fingers through his hair.

“What sort of dreadful father would I be?”

“I think you’d be brilliant,” Harry said, and he regretted it at once. He should know better than to show any kind of bias. This was _Draco’s_ decision, he told his own instincts as firmly as he could. Draco’s alone and _not_ his.

Draco looked up at him. To Harry’s surprise, he looked more surprised than anything else. “At what point between my childhood narcissism and taking the Dark Mark did I do anything that would convince you I’d be a good parent?”

Harry laughed, though there wasn’t any humor in it. “It came slightly after all that. You’re smart, Draco, or haven’t you noticed? And you’ve always cared about family, perhaps even past the point of what could be consider rationality.”

Draco laughed, too, also without humor.

“I just don’t want you to do anything you might regret because you think you’d be bad at it. I know you’d be wonderful. And I—” he hesitated, “—if you’d ask it, I’d be with you every step.”

“Why on earth wouldn’t I want that?”

Harry met his eyes and felt suddenly weak. Right at that moment, past the knowledge that Harry did not and could not have any agency in Draco’s decision, despite the understanding that his instincts were more than likely responsible for most of his decision-making capabilities, he _wanted_ it. He _wanted_ to have a child with Draco, more than he’d ever wanted anything.

He wanted to see Draco’s stomach grow heavy with the weight of their child. He wanted to feel movement under the soft heat of his skin. He wanted to hold his child in his arms, kiss its forehead, sing to it. He wanted to raise it to be better than himself, to avoid making all the mistakes he’d made, to be compassionate and open-minded and thoughtful and curious. He wanted to give it everything Harry never had.

He wanted it so badly that he found he was suddenly blinded with tears.

Draco grabbed his hand. “I know,” he said, and his voice was tight with emotion. “I understand. I feel the same thing, but—”

“I know,” Harry said, grabbing his hand right back.

“—we can’t let this be a purely emotional decision.”

“I know,” Harry said again.

“This is life-changing,” Draco said. “We can’t let our instincts drive us, not on this, it’s too important.”

“I know,” Harry said a third time. “You’re right. I _know_ you’re right. But God—”

Draco leaned across the table and kissed Harry firmly, briefly. “We have time,” Draco said against his mouth. “We have time.”

 

* * *

 

Time trudged ever onward, heedless of the fact that Draco felt like he was spiraling, suffocating, crushed beneath the weight of an impossible decision. Tonight became tomorrow, tomorrow turned into next week, and soon next week was next month.

They didn’t talk much about the pregnancy, though they talked about everything else. They talked about how Harry’s job was going over at the DMLE; they talked about how Draco had secured a contract to brew a few shipments of potions for an apothecary in Diagon Alley; they talked about the new museum that was going up in the wake of the end of the War and whether or not they wanted to visit. They talked about food, friends, family, current events, but they didn’t talk about the pregnancy.

At least not until Draco woke up one morning and only barely made it to the toilet before vomiting up his dinner from the night before.

Draco _hated_ vomiting. He hated being unwell in general. He was not one of those people who could put mind over matter and power through sickness and never had been. And when he finally, _finally_ finished with the whole disgusting, violent affair, he flushed the toilet and slumped down against the wall.

It took him a moment to notice that Harry was there in his pajama bottoms, standing in the doorway with a worried frown.

“Morning sickness?” he asked.

Draco nodded weakly and used a bit of toilet paper to wipe the sick from his lower lip.

Harry slowly crossed the bathroom and sat down next to him, sliding an arm around Draco’s shoulders. Draco gratefully leaned on his shoulder.

“We can nip down to Diagon Alley,” he said. “Get a few nausea potions.”

“I can make it myself,” Draco returned.

They were silent a moment. Harry stretched out his free hand and laced his finger’s in Draco’s.

“Did you fall back asleep all right?” Draco asked, eager to talk about something – anything – else.

Harry nodded. That night he’d woken up, screaming and thrashing, in the throes of a nightmare. Draco didn’t know what his nightmares were about – he’d never asked – but from what he screamed, Draco was willing to guess they were about the Dark Lord.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you more,” Draco said.

Harry looked down at him, and Draco didn’t need to look to know that he was frowning.

“I know it’s mostly my omega instincts, but I really just – I have this profound _need_ to make you better, to nurture you back to health.”

“Draco…”

“Mother says just being around you will help, what with the bond,” he continued, “but Merlin, how am I supposed to be any help at all if I’m fat and nauseous and useless?”

“Draco.” His voice was firmer this time. Draco looked up at him. “That’s ridiculous. You have no idea everything you’ve already done, do you?”

Draco frowned but didn’t answer.

“It was _worse,_ ” Harry said. “It was so much worse, before I found you again. The nightmares came every night. I nearly got addicted to dreamless sleep potions just to quell them. I was miserable – utterly incapable of making my girlfriend happy, utterly incapable of making _myself_ happy.” He frowned, paused, looked away. “The night after I first saw you again in Nizhnevartovsk, I had my first uninterrupted night’s sleep since the War. When you came home after the trial, I even managed a full eight hours.”

“Harry…”

“Just having you here… I can’t even explain how much _better_ things are. I’m looking forward to things. I’m _happy_. Seeing you when I wake up, having your scent in the sheets of the bed, it’s done so much for me. So don’t you dare think – Draco, don’t you _dare_ think that you can’t help me. You already have.”

Draco swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He bent forward and kissed him, lightly, and Harry responded just as lightly.

Draco pulled back quickly, though, when he remembered— “I’m sure I taste like sick.”

Harry laughed. “A bit,” he admitted. “That’s fine, though. There are other places I can kiss.”

Draco sucked in a breath when he felt Harry’s mouth on his jaw, moving down the side of his throat. “Harry…”

“I just want you to understand,” he said between the feather-light kisses that were moving ever lower, towards Draco’s collarbone, “I just want you to know how badly I need you, how much you’ve already done for me. Nothing is going to change that, certainly not the pregnancy.”

Harry bit lightly on the bone of his shoulder and Draco keened. Under the soft, loose silk of his sleepwear, Draco’s cock was stirring to life, despite his best efforts. “You have work in less than an hour,” Draco panted.

“Then we’d better be quick.”

His arms were sliding around Draco’s chest and the weight of him was lowering Draco onto the floor. If there was any nausea left, Draco was swiftly forgetting its existence.

“There are times when I feel like I’m insane,” Harry said, his hands fumbling with the buttons going down the front of Draco’s pajama top. “How can the presence of just one person have such a profound impact on me? How can he turn my entire life around in just a few weeks?”

Draco’s entire body jerked when Harry lightly bit his nipple. “Ahhnn—! Th-the bond,” he stammered.

“Maybe the bond explains why I can sleep better, but it doesn’t explain why I look forward to coming home. It doesn’t explain why just the sight of you makes everything seem all right after a terrible day. It doesn’t explain why I can’t get you out of my head.”

Harry’s mouth was on his stomach now, his tongue licking and suckling at the warm flesh around his navel. Draco knotted his hands in Harry’s hair and rocked his hips, hoping he would take it as a sign that he wanted Harry to go lower.

Fingers slipped under the band of his pajama bottoms, and Draco whined and lifted his hips to help Harry tug them down. He could hear the sound of rustling fabric, and a moment later, Harry moved back up his body, and Draco felt his cock slide up alongside his own. Draco shuddered.

“It doesn’t explain why I’ve come to admire you so much for overcoming your upbringing,” Harry said, speaking directly into the skin of Draco’s throat, and the words vibrated, sending gooseflesh rising along his chest. “It doesn’t explain why I feel like my day isn’t complete if I don’t get to kiss you.”

Harry started to move and Draco’s fingernails dug into Harry’s back. He rutted down into him, flesh on flesh, heat on heat, slowly at first and then with more speed. Harry was kissing Draco’s throat like he wanted to devour him whole, and at that moment Draco wouldn’t have minded if he did.

“It doesn’t explain why you have so much – _God_ , Draco – _power_ over me, why one word from you controls me utterly – i-if I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was—”

_Oh, Merlin._ Electricity rocketed up Draco’s spine and he started moving his hips in tandem. Harry didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to; Draco knew how it ended, and even unsung it was music to his ears.

Harry seemed just as astonished, some distant part of Draco’s mind noticed. His hands knotted tightly in Draco’s hair and his hips started snapping more quickly down against him.

“Draco,” he said like he was realizing it for the first time, “I—”

“I’m falling in love with you,” Draco finished, breathlessly.

“I am,” Harry panted, hips rocking faster. “Oh, God, I am. I’m falling in love with you.”

Draco’s entire body felt tight, taut like the string of a violin, and orgasm raged ever closer. Even when Harry was silent, his words were still ringing in Draco’s head. They should not have been as intensely, crushingly erotic as they were.

“Harry,” he whined, his fingernails scraping over the sweat-slicked skin of his back, falling in love, flying. “Merlin, Harry…”

“I’m falling in love with you,” Harry panted, and Draco could see the muscles tightening along his chest and arms.

Everything in the world that wasn’t Harry was starting to fade out of Draco’s perception. He was arcing, straining, sweating, building, falling, flying, churning—

“Ha-harry, I… aah—hhnnnaaa _aaah_ —!”

In the fog, Draco wasn’t sure who came first or if it was simultaneous. He felt the heat, the evidence of it in long stripes on his stomach, and it felt like hours before the thrum of climax finally started to settle.

Harry kissed him; Draco kissed him back. His heart was still settling in his chest, the final waves of orgasm fading into the periphery of his senses. Draco basked in the scent of Harry.

When he opened his eyes, Harry was still over him, staring down at him, and that expression that Draco had seen in the weeks since he’d first moved in was still there, and Draco finally had a name for it. Love. He was falling in love with Harry and Harry was falling in love with him.

It was awful and wonderful and terrifying and awe-inspiring all the same time.

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Harry said softly, his fingers carding through Draco’s hair.

“It’s the good kind of scared,” Draco assured him, tilting his head against Harry’s hand. “The fluttery kind.”

Harry smiled.

“You do have work,” Draco reminded him reluctantly.

“Sod work,” Harry said impetuously. “My omega isn’t feeling well. He needs me around to pamper him with soup and orgasms.”

Draco laughed, despite himself, and Harry kissed him again, lightly, on the corner of his mouth. “Is that the excuse you’re going to give the Head Auror when he asks?”

“Sure,” Harry said. “Why not?”

“You’re preposterous.”

Another kiss – Draco had lost count – and his smile was starting to make the muscles in his face ache.

“Of course I am,” Harry said against his mouth. “I’m falling in love. I can’t believe I only just realized.”

Draco shivered, tangled his fingers in Harry’s hair. “Perhaps it just took us longer to notice in the fog of hormones and instincts.”

“Maybe.” Yet another kiss, briefer. “Let me make you some soup, hm?”

Draco could not imagine what he did to deserve this sort of treatment, this sort of alpha, this sort of life.

 

* * *

 

They started talking about the pregnancy.

Not with great frequency, and never for very long, but they talked about it. They talked about how friends and family might react, about abortive methods for omega men, about how they’d have to adjust to a baby. They talked about guilt and money and legacies and instinct and the social expectations placed on alphas and omegas. They talked about it over the course of several weeks, and came to a few conclusions:

One, if Draco decided to abort, they would be able to move past it, relationship unscathed, unburdened by guilt.

Two, if Draco decided to carry to term, they would be able to love and raise the child together.

Harry would have felt very pleased about how well they’d both handled it and how mature and rational their discussions were, but for one rather loud, unspoken fact—

Neither of them had actually said what they _wanted_.

So they worked and cooked and made love and generally went on with their lives, talking about everything except the one thing that mattered most.

One evening rather like the rest, Harry came home and found Draco in the sitting room, unpacking the last few boxes. It was the only remaining room that hadn’t been unpacked. Harry hung up his cloak on the rack by the door and headed inside as Draco adjusted a picture of the Weasleys on the wall.

“Hey,” Harry said. “This place looks great.”

Draco looked over his shoulder and smiled.

“It’s finally starting to look how it’s meant to look,” Harry continued, approaching him from behind and settling his chin on his shoulder. Draco hummed in agreement and leaned back against him. “You’ve done a great job.”

Draco turned his head to the side. There was a tall mirror standing near the far wall, giving them a perfect view of themselves. For a moment, they both studied their reflection, and Harry felt pleased at how very natural the closeness looked.

“I’m gaining weight,” Draco said.

Harry frowned. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said, which was true.

“I’m hyper-aware of my own body lately. More than usual. I’ve gained five pounds since last week.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “I imagine that’s…”

“Yes.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

“Every time I pass a mirror, I keep studying myself, trying to look for some sign of it. I know it will be ages before there’s any obvious change, but I look anyway.”

“Why?”

Draco paused. A look of pain passed over his face. “Good question.”

He slid from Harry’s arms and walked to the mirror. Harry watched, heart fluttering for no identifiable reason, as Draco pressed both hands to his abdomen.

“I looked it up,” Draco said. “I’m about ten weeks on now; fetal movement has likely already started, but because of the size I likely haven’t noticed.”

The fluttering turned into a steady thumping. The very idea that there was something – _Harry’s_ something, _Draco’s_ something – moving inside him made Harry feel jittery, anxious, desperate for something he couldn’t quite name.

“It’s likely no larger than a lemon,” Draco said, his hands pressing more firmly. “Most of its mass is made up of its head.”

“Draco,” Harry said, his voice wan and almost shaking.

“Sometimes at night I lie in bed and try to picture it,” he continued as though he hadn’t heard Harry. “I try to picture a little big-headed, lemon-sized thing growing inside me.”

Harry swallowed. Even though he really, really didn’t want to know the answer, he asked, “Can you picture it?”

Draco’s hands fisted in his robes. “Yes,” he answered, voice taut.

Harry took a few very deep breaths.

“It’s sentimental poppycock,” Draco said, and it almost sounded like a sob. “There’s no real reason I should feel this connected to something with no central nervous system growing in my abdomen.”

“Draco—”

“There’s _no reason_ I should feel so attached. It’s my stupid bloody _instinct_ , my _hormones_ , a useless evolutionary vestige designed to assure that the next generation survives. It’s not _real_.”

Harry closed the gap between them and turned him around. Despite his best efforts, Harry could feel his eyes stinging with tears.

“Just because something is driven by reflex doesn’t mean it’s not _real,_ ” Harry said.

Draco swallowed.

“I understand why you begrudge your instincts. So far they haven’t done much for you. But they’re just a part of you, a part like any other. They aren’t any better or worse than anything else, and deserve equal consideration.”

Draco looked down, and Harry pulled him into his arms and kissed his temple.

“Whatever you choose, I will support you,” Harry said. “All you have to do is know what you want.”

“I…”

Harry swallowed as Draco hesitated. It was taking everything in him to be unbiased, to remind himself that this was _Draco’s_ choice, _Draco’s_ body, _not_ his, no matter how desperately, how painfully—

“Harry,” he said, “do _you_...?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you want me to carry to term?”

There were so many terrible-wonderful things inside him that he felt like they were ripping him apart at the seams. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Draco didn’t answer.

“I’ve never wanted anything so badly,” he answered. “Maybe it is just my instincts. I don’t know. But the want is real. Just as real as the attachment you feel. Just as real as our bond. I love you and I want this with you—”

The whole speech that had been falling out of him was abruptly silenced when Draco seized him by both shoulders and pulled him into a bruising kiss. Harry could taste salty tears on his lips and wondered if they were his or Draco’s or both.

He pulled back after a moment, though only enough to speak:

“I love you, you big, stupid, sentimental prat.”

Harry laughed wetly.

“We are in completely over our heads.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing can possibly be the same.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I want it, too.”

Harry’s grip on Draco tightened. He smiled deliriously, kissed him, and his mind filled with all the wonderful, terrible, terrifying, incredible, irreplaceable yet-to-comes. He pressed a hand against Draco’s abdomen and for a moment, he was absolutely sure he felt a slight flutter under the skin.

**Author's Note:**

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